By evening, Jack returned carrying an old army cot.
“Thought you might want
something better than that couch.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Feels like I’m back in a forward operating base.”
He grinned.
“Difference is, here, you’ve got choice. You get to build instead of just survive.”
As night fell, I cooked pasta on the stove and ate with the window open, listening to the steady lap of the lake. My body ached from scrubbing, painting, lifting, but it was a good ache, the kind that came from fighting for something real.
After dinner, I sat down with my laptop and began drafting a
proposal for the foundation. Simple bullet points: land use, community support, funding options. I wasn’t sure how far I’d get, but writing it down made it tangible.
Halfway through, my phone buzzed. An unknown number. Against better judgment, I answered.
“Hannah Whitmore?” a man’s voice asked.
