Road to Redemption

A Mess of His Own Making

Craig was trying to stay sober in San Sequoia—his hometown, where expectations wrapped around him like fog and family dinners doubled as performance reviews. Chris was in the picture, splitting time between his stressful final year at Foxbury and home, close enough to notice when Craig’s humor turned brittle again.

It had been months since Craig’s first rehab. A divorce from a girl he barely knew, from a wedding that happened for the wrong reasons. A four-month freeze-out with his best friend Chris after alienating him and everyone else. But things were finally looking up—after a brief relapse Chris and his dad, Dr. Connor Cameron, had kept off the books.

Community college and support groups. Living in his teen room at his parents’ home. None of it ideal, but it was working—somewhat.

Until: the wedding posts.

Her wedding. The girl who once felt like future tense and oxygen. The one he’d lost. The one whose absence made him marry the first heartbreak he collided with—just to feel less wrecked. It lasted four months, a failed attempt at an annulment which became a divorce. At twenty-one. By nightfall, the ache had shape.

The hangover from rock bottom wasn’t alcohol. Just grief. Lingering. Weeks.

Craig stayed mostly off-grid in San Sequoia, holed up in his old room where the drywall still smelled like primer and disappointment after a half-hearted attempt to paint the room into something matching the current version of Craig Douglas.

His father stopped talking about “potential” and started talking about “accountability.” His mother tried to hide how affected she was, but Craig saw it—the sadness, the disappointment. And Chris—his best friend since sandbox days—closer than ever, but quieter. He refused to coddle or coach. Just showed up with smoothies and granola bars, sat still when the silence got heavy, and offered updates without pushing.

Craig tried structure. Volunteered at a community center in Anchorpoint Wharf. Made it three shifts before ghosting. Applied for a barista job downtown and bailed halfway through training. He was trying. Kind of.

The wedding posts had wrecked him, yes—but Chris was there, either in person or a phone call away. Connor stepped in too, with quiet late-night drives when Chris was back at campus and no-pressure check-ins. When Craig slipped again, it was subtle. Too subtle. A missed dinner. A half-lie about a headache. Chris caught it first but didn’t say much. Just started staying later, asking gentler questions. Connor noticed second. He saw the cracks but chose steering over scolding. His own son was maxed out with med school burnout and secondhand heartbreak, so he treaded lightly and added quiet Craig-checks to his long to-do list to relieve the burden from Chris. There wasn’t room for ultimatums.

But then Craig’s parents found him—scared, incoherent, drooling, pupils like saucers. Curled up in the laundry room with the empty dryer still running.

They didn’t wait. Just dialed. No speech could explain away what they’d seen.

That ambulance ride marked the first time the spiral hit paper since his first time. Now it was real. On file. In system. On record.

The Second Rehab Didn’t Stick Quietly

Craig swore he’d try. Told his parents rehab made sense. Told Connor it was fine. Told Chris nothing at all. Just sat with him in silence, while resenting himself on the inside. Another failure.

At first, it stuck. He kept his head down, sketched in notebooks, even led one group session on “finding humor after implosion.” But progress stalled. A month in, he begged his mom not to send him back to rehab after a pass. Promised he’d do better at home. She folded. Couldn’t stand to see her ‘little boy’ so desperate.
He moved back into his old room in San Sequoia again, shelves still lined with sports trophies and half-read textbooks, sad reminders of a time he had dreams. The kind that could become real.

For a few weeks, it worked.

It was stupid, really. A junk drawer purge, an old phone blinking awake, and there they were—Sloane, Chris, Cadence—that ridiculous golden hour snapshot from their first group hang, back when things felt possible. When Cadie had barely started dating Chris, and Craig already knew Sloane liked what she saw when looking at him about as much as he did when looking at her, both felt that sizzle, back when he still thought futures came in upward trends, not crashes.

He stared too long. Got sad. Then angry. Then aimless.

That night he slipped out without saying anything while his parents were watching TV. Just needed some air. To blow the cobwebs from his brain. Roamed the city. Found the wrong corner. Took what was offered.

The Crash That Didn’t Fade Quietly

Then he was behind the wheel.

It wasn’t subtle. Craig plowed through the median on Bay Tree Blvd at 2AM, sheared the back end of a parked municipal vehicle, and slammed into the fountain outside City Hall. Sirens. Cameras. Pedestrians watching. A viral video within the hour.

Chris saw it on social media. Connor got the call from a friend in the ER.

Craig woke up handcuffed to the hospital bed. No longer a teenager. No longer someone whose parents could absorb the blast. Almost twenty-two and bruised enough to confirm the truth: he hadn’t been fine for a long time.

The injuries were stacked: A concussion that left his thoughts scattered and speech slurred. Temporarily. Two cracked ribs, every breath a reminder. A sprained wrist, swaddled and useless. Twenty-two stitches in his thigh, where the dashboard opened him up. Road rash and facial bruising so vivid they nearly trended on their own.

He was the only name on the damage report.

His beloved old car—a silver 2010 Toyota Camry—had been his first and only. A sixteenth birthday gift from his parents. Not new, but his. He dented the back bumper the first week, backing into a mailbox because he refused help parking. His dad, Massimo, shook his head. Mom Carolina had said, “It’s a learning car. It’s supposed to survive the mistakes.”

The municipal vehicle he clipped belonged to city sanitation—rear axle totaled. The tow alone cost more than Craig had ever earned. The City Hall fountain had a bent bronze spire, shattered tile, damage well into five figures. Landscaping along the traffic median scattered like confetti across the boulevard. The cleanup cost alone brought tears to anyone’s eyes. The lawsuit would push it higher.

His parents arrived before dawn, shell-shocked. But this wasn’t their mess to clean. They could help with bills, maybe. Sit through hearings. Try not to unravel. But Craig was legally accountable—for the crash, for the substances, for the damage done to more than just property.

The criminal charges came quickly, stacking like bricks. Driving under the influence. Reckless endangerment. Destruction of public property. Possession too, depending on the final tox screen. No space for leniency. The city wasn’t interested in apologies—they wanted accountability.

When the sentencing came, it was brutal in its clarity. Ninety days in a residential rehab facility. No exceptions. Eighteen months of probation that wouldn’t disappear quietly. Random drug tests. Mandatory weekly therapy. And no driving—Craig wouldn’t see another set of keys until he passed a full psychological evaluation and re-earned the trust he’d burned in hours.

The city filed for restitution. Craig would owe them, personally, for repairs. He wasn’t handcuffed anymore. But he was tethered to consequences with no exit route.

His bruises faded faster than his reputation. Friends ghosted. His feed went quiet. The worst damage? That settled somewhere deeper. Harder to scan. Harder to stitch.

The Theft Nobody Could Ignore

The relapse wasn’t planned. But pain rarely is.

Craig woke aching—physically, mentally, universally. Ribs flared when he twisted. His wrist throbbed on cold mornings. And the regret? It pulsed like an infection.

He called his dad first. Straight to voicemail. Tried his mom, but she was buried in work—barely whispered she’d call later, didn’t. Then Chris. Senior med student, buried in rotations and a make-or-break neuro lab. He didn’t pick up either, just sent a quick text: “Sorry—can’t talk. Big day. Call u later.”

Craig read it four times before letting out a deep sigh.

Then came desperation.

He walked to the medical center—didn’t drive; wasn’t allowed. Asked for Connor at reception. Dr. Cameron was scrubbed into surgery. No exceptions. No messages.

So Craig wandered.

Found himself near the supply alcove off a side corridor. A crash cart had been restocked, drawer left open. It wasn’t flashy—just a post-op sedative, clinical and quiet.

He didn’t think. Just took. Slipped it inside his jacket, heart hammering loud enough to drown out the guilt.

What he didn’t see: the dome camera overhead. Security didn’t stop him. The footage traveled first—silently, irreversibly.

Two days later, a quiet knock at the door. A summons. A warrant. Then the tox screen confirmed what everyone feared: he’d used it. Almost fatally.

The Consequences That Couldn’t Be Softened

Connor sat with him at intake. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t rage. Just stared until Craig couldn’t meet his eyes.

“You’re done choosing the easy way,” Connor said. “This time, you have to earn it. I can’t protect you now, kid. I can’t cover this up. Security reviewed the footage and followed protocol. Police were already on their way by the time I got the call. My hands are tied now.”

He paused.

“But I’ll talk to the clinic owner. Maybe they won’t press charges. That’s all I can do.”

Craig didn’t get another chance.

The judge acknowledged the clinic’s grace—but said Craig’s record spoke louder than intentions. Rehab hadn’t stuck. Now theft, overdose, public demolition and embarrassment—it was all too much.

He was sentenced without options. Eighteen months in county correctional. No programs. No probation.

Just iron bars and a number instead of a name.

Slammer

He arrived raw. Fresh-faced in a place built to chew you up fast.

They didn’t like him. Not the guards. Not the lifers. Especially not the young guys trying to prove something. Maybe it was how Craig carried himself—bruised ego tucked behind sarcasm and silence. Or maybe someone saw the viral video and pegged him as the spoiled kid who crashed into a fountain and walked away.

First week in the general wing, he mouthed off to a guy twice his size. Something stupid. Something Craig would’ve said anywhere else and gotten away with.

Here, it got him laid out in the laundry room. Jaw bloodied. Ribs, again. He didn’t argue. Just limped to the infirmary like routine. He didn’t tell anyone how the bruises matched ones he barely remembered from the crash.

Two weeks later, it happened again—this time a push down the stairs after chow. The fall split his lip wide, rattled his already fragile wrist. And each trip back sharpened the temptation: the cart, the drawer, the vials he couldn’t unsee.

So he waited. Tracked the shifts. Watched the nurse. Took the pills—meant for post-op patients, tucked loose in a glove he’d stolen from the supply bin.

They found him on the tile hours later. Convulsing. Alone.

His tox screen lit up like a warning label.

And this time, no one protested the transfer. Not even him. He couldn’t. His parents didn’t get a say—just a note that he was being relocated, more details to follow.

He was moved within seventy-two hours—bagged, tagged, processed straight into the bootcamp facility in the desert. Not because he asked. Because he had become a liability.

Heat, Silence, and Consequence

The ride out was quiet. No cuffs this time—just paperwork and an officer who didn’t say more than ten words between San Sequoia and the desert. Craig didn’t talk either. There was nothing left to explain.

He arrived as a transfer, flagged “high risk” by the intake team, “potentially salvageable” by the review board. Too volatile for county lockup. Too young to discard. The bootcamp facility in Strangerville wasn’t rehab—not exactly. But it wasn’t jail either. Not quite. It was something built in between: structured rehabilitation layered over military discipline, designed for those whose spirals had gone public, loud, and criminal.

He was dropped at the west entrance, where the sun hit everything sideways and the walls radiated heat like judgment. They gave him a uniform: rough fabric, wrong size, stenciled with a barcode instead of a name. His duffel—empty but for medical clearance forms and the meds that kept withdrawal symptoms dull—was tossed on a bunk in Detox Barrack C.

The place smelled like bleach and sweat and something sour lingering beneath the floor polish.

The first night, he didn’t sleep.

Someone puked. Someone screamed. A guy three cots down howled for his girlfriend like she could hear him through concrete. Craig lay staring at the ceiling, ribs aching, thoughts knotted tight, covering his ears until his arms gave out. The ache wasn’t just physical—it was existential. Like something vital had been scraped out and replaced with silence.

And then the grief hit.

Not the grief for drugs, or freedom, or even dignity.

The grief for the future he’d killed.

He was supposed to graduate with Chris. They had planned it since sophomore year at high school.

Instead now, he was almost twenty-two, detoxing in a cot that squeaked every time he shifted. His parents were silent. Chris was drowning in senior year. And even if he wanted to tell someone he was hurting inside and out—his jaw still ached from a county prison stairwell—there was no one to hear it.

He cried.

Not a breakdown. Not the loud kind. Just quiet, strained tears that leaked sideways into a government-issued pillowcase. Every dream felt gone. Every plan melted into concrete.

Chris would graduate before Craig ever earned back the right to stand beside him. He’d be lucky if the program allowed him out—just to watch it happen.

Court Mandates, and the Desert Nobody Asked For

Craig stayed—but not by choice. The facility was run like a dual-pronged bootcamp, built on the bones of an old military base: one wing for detox and mandated recovery, the other for restructured citizenship training. The barracks weren’t just beds and lockers—they were intentional. Cold steel, tight schedules, no personal effects beyond what was listed and approved. It smelled like cleaning fluid and control.

Every minute was accounted for. Wake-up blared at 4:45AM sharp, showers lasted precisely six minutes, meals were timed, activities rotated in color-coded blocks across a wall-mounted board guarded by two uniformed staff with clipboards and correctional badges. Sleep came at 2200 hours on the dot. You didn’t deviate unless you were actively dying. Even withdrawals had to be scheduled around drills.

The recovery program was brutal. Seven days of monitored detox, followed by sixteen-hour days stacked with therapy, emotional accountability drills, and physical conditioning. If you failed a task, you started over. If you refused, you didn’t graduate—you cycled back to square one.

The guards wore desert-toned uniforms and mirrored sunglasses inside. They watched everything. The rehabbers had their own uniforms: gray cargo fatigues, stiff canvas boots, name stitched over the heart and a serial code embroidered on one sleeve. Nobody looked comfortable in them. They weren’t supposed to.

Most here were men. Young. Fractured. Formerly good boys with bright futures who hit rough patches and made one bad choice, then another, then spiraled into the kind of devilish ruin the world stopped waiting for. Their eyes didn’t meet yours. Their fingers twitched. The common denominator was some traumatic event followed by drugs and booze, and the illusion they could control either.

There was a separate wing for women—segregated by design, guarded just as closely. The facility claimed it was about safety, not isolation, but the result was the same: no shared housing, no mixed sessions, no crossover unless a rare co-ed lecture or communal work rotation made it unavoidable. Even then, interaction was monitored like a parole hearing. No private conversations. No body language that suggested more than formality. One glance too long and the clipboard went up.

Craig glimpsed them occasionally—passing in formation, standing in line, eyes just as lost. Not many. A third the number, maybe less. Mostly younger, mostly quiet, mostly written off the same way the boys were: another name buried beneath addiction stats and juvenile reports that got darker with every page. Their uniforms were dark green instead of gray. Their boots the same. Their posture said everything he already knew—this wasn’t healing. This was last chance territory.

No contact was encouraged. Nothing intimate was permitted. If connection happened, it happened in stolen glances or shared exhaustion. Even empathy had rules here.

No visitors during Phase One. No calls. And if they caught you with contraband—like the burner phone Craig had duct-taped to the back of his sketchbook—you lost privileges fast. He found out the hard way. They confiscated it on day four after he tried to reach Chris at midnight, fingers trembling, begging for a way out.

By week three, he’d finished detox and passed medical evaluations—barely. That earned him a transfer: new uniform, new ID tag, new cot in the bootcamp wing with a roster full of former addicts, convicts, and lost kids who once thought they’d bounce forever.

This was punishment, but not just that anymore. It was rewiring. Control disguised as care. Every impulse drowned in protocol. Craig’s days were scripted down to the second: wake times, shower length, bathroom breaks, turn-down rituals. Getting dressed. Getting undressed. Even brushing his teeth came with instructions—when, how, and for how long. No moment too medial to regulate. Craig hated every second of it.

He missed his parents’ exhausted kindness. Missed Chris’s dumb smoothies and granola bars. Missed Connor’s dry humor and practical presence. What he had instead were drills at dawn, group evaluations at dusk, and a roommate who didn’t speak unless asked.

But something inside him started shifting—not redemption, not clarity. Just steadiness. He stopped flinching when they called his name. Started listening without bracing for impact. And when someone asked him what his biggest regret was, he said, “Letting everyone cover for me until the damage got louder than the help.”

They didn’t clap. Just wrote it down.

At night, the screams echoed off the concrete like memory. Someone retching. Someone begging for meds. Echoes of people sobbing quietly echoing through the halls. Craig lay curled under his regulation blanket, pillow pressed to his ears, eyes wide, throat tight. He hadn’t cried in days—not properly—but tonight, it broke loose.

The pain was physical. Joints stiff. Nerves hot. Stomach in knots. But it was the loss that kept him from sleep.

His graduation trip with Chris—they’d planned it since sophomore year. Sun, surf, two weeks in Sulani before real life started. Craig would get certified, work in marine biology, spend his twenties tan and half-dressed, diving for data and dodging seriousness. He’d text Chris weird sea creature facts from the field and hit him with “man, you gotta see this” photos of squid doing something insane.

They were going to get a shared bachelor pad in downtown San Sequoia, somewhere with rooftop access and terrible parking. Parties every weekend, work during the week, and the occasional serious conversation after midnight about when they’d settle down, sometime in their thirties, where they’d raise their kids. Their kids would of course grow up like they had—two best friends building futures side-by-side.

That plan seemed far out of reach for Craig. He was miles behind and probably never able to catch up to Chris ever again. And probably out of options and chances to do any of the things he had dreamt of. What was left of his college fund was gone, spent to pay off some of the damage he had caused, rest covered with a loan his parents had to take out that would take him forever to pay them back for. With no college degree in a city like San Sequoia, making a decent wage would be a tall order.

Instead, he was here. Detoxing in a desert barrack surrounded by screaming strangers. Losing another chance every time his body betrayed him. His parents had cried when they signed the court papers. Chris had stopped saying “we’ll fix this.” And Connor—stoic, worn—had only nodded, like the damage had finally carved Craig’s shape correctly.

Girls didn’t look at him the same anymore. Not with that story trailing him like smoke. The high school starting quarterback thing used to mean something. He was so good that major league scouts came to his games. He got offers. Full ride paid at select colleges. Now it sounded like a joke. Ancient history. Meaningless. He didn’t accept then, his mom used to say marine biology was safer than football and they rather have him safe even if they have to pay for it. Now all of it felt like fiction. Unattainable.

Craig pulled the blanket tighter and sobbed—quiet, broken, and real.

His life felt over before it had even started. And Chris would graduate before Craig ever earned back the right to stand beside him. He’d be lucky if they let him out just to watch the graduation. Not as a peer. Not as a friend. Just a cautionary tale who showed up dressed in desert dust with an officer as escort.

Craig didn’t mix much. Most of the guys in the detox wing were ghosts with twitchy fingers, avoiding eye contact like it burned. But once he moved into the bootcamp barracks, things shifted. Not friendly—never that—but a few names got exchanged. A few nods. One guy, Jenkins, had arms covered in sketchy tats and a laugh like a blender. Another, Riz, had overdosed twice and still smuggled gum like it was contraband gold.

They all called him Camry now.

Didn’t matter how he introduced himself—Craig, nice to meet you, whatever. To them, he was the guy who crashed a silver Toyota into a fountain like it owed him money. The name stuck harder than the stitches.

They knew Craig’s story. Everyone did. The crash, the video, the court fallout. But nobody came for him. Not with fists, not with fire. They just let him simmer until he simmered less.

The closest thing to bonding came during movie night—a rare break built into the schedule where both wings filed into the recreation hall and stared at a government-approved film projected against a cracked wall. Rules were tight: no mingling, no notes passed, no sudden exits.

That night, a girl from the female wing landed beside him. Slim, cropped hair, sharp-lined collar. Craig slid into charm mode like muscle memory.

“Craig,” he said, quiet but confident. “Certified scuba master. Marine biologist … well, almost anyway. If you ever need tips on marine creatures, I give great tours.”

She barely turned. Just shot him a glance like she wanted her eyeballs refunded and said, flat as cement: “Fuck off, douche. I play for the other team.”

She stood, shifted seats two rows up without waiting for a response.

From behind him, Jenkins hissed, half-whistle: “Aaaaand Camry strikes OUT.”

Riz burst out laughing. “Next time, read the room, bro. She had a rainbow reef inked behind her ear.”

Craig blinked. “A what?”

“Tat. Lesbian symbol. Stylized coral. You missed it because you were too busy being underwater and delusional.”

The laughter wasn’t cruel. Just earned.

Craig didn’t say much after that. Just faced forward and let the movie wash over him like consequences.

He didn’t try again.

Recovery Barracks, Strangerville

The air in Strangerville reeked of antiseptic and protocol. Corridors were polished to gleam and devoid of color, like a place designed to prevent connection. To Chris, it felt less like a medical facility and more like containment with charts.

He stood at the admin desk, duffel by his feet, approvals in hand, adopting the clipped tone expected of clinical visitors. Behind the glass, the officer’s expression held no flicker of empathy.

“Visitation for Phase Two is restricted. Guardians or licensed support only. You’re listed as neither.”

Chris didn’t blink. “No, but I have psychological training and Dr. Kline authorized the visit as stabilizing. His court-assigned guardians, aka his parents, gave written consent. I’m not here to violate policy. Just here as steady ground.”

The air in Strangerville smelled like dust and disinfectant—everything tightly managed, everything just slightly too sterile. It reminded Chris of the back halls of his father’s hospital, except colder and far less hopeful.

“What’s in the bag?” she asked, not looking up.

Chris kept his voice neutral. “A few personal items. Craig’s favorite old hoodie. Couple candy bars. A paperback he used to read when things got bad. Just… things to cheer him up.”

She typed without pause. “Gifts aren’t allowed. Emotional stimuli increase instability. Leave it here.”

Chris frowned. “They’re not gifts. They are his things. Stuff his parents and I think would help him through. And harmless.”

“That’s not the point. If you want to see him, the duffle stays. Or you and the duffle leave.”

With a deep sigh Chris obliged. “Fine.”

The duffel disappeared behind a chute with a mechanical hum. No receipt. No acknowledgment. Just vanished—like the sentiment inside it didn’t matter.

Just like comfort didn’t make it past protocol.

The officer flipped through tabs with the practiced indifference of someone who’d seen every version of desperation. Then, finally: “You’ve got ninety minutes. No physical contact, no contraband, do not get him roweled up, do not upset him, absolutely no psych disruption. You cause stress, we end it. Stop by here after to pick up the bag.”

“Wait, no physical contact? Does that mean not even a hug?”

“Not even a handshake. This isn’t group comfort therapy—it’s containment.”

Chris didn’t flinch. “Understood.”

—

Craig hadn’t been expecting anyone. His hair was damp from the mandatory midday shower, and he was sketching nonsense symbols in the margin of his meal log when a staffer tapped the edge of his tray.

“Visitation.”

That was the only word. No context. No name.

Craig stood automatically, like he was spring-loaded into compliance. The walk through the halls was quiet and sterile—no echoes, no eye contact. Even the escort kept quiet—eyes forward, mouth sealed.

When he entered the visitation room, Chris was already there, palms flat on the sanitized table, posture locked in place under the camera’s gaze. He looked ten pounds lighter, eyes darker. Worn in all the right ways. The med school grind hadn’t made him cold—it had just stripped away whatever wasn’t essential. Confidence. Discipline. Patience Craig used to tease him for.

They’d been inseparable once—sandbox friends, picked up their prom dates in matching tux colors, the kind of brotherhood people wrote off as juvenile until it stayed. Two best friends growing into best men.

And now Craig was wearing gray fatigues with a serial number instead of a name.

He didn’t speak until the door clicked shut behind him.

“They really let you in? Or am I tripping on something and imagining you?”

Chris gave a weak smile. “Chill dude, it’s me. I practically auditioned for the role of ‘stable influence.’ Think I passed. I didn’t dare mention I’m your best friend—just rode the medically trained, therapist-approved card until they let me shut up.”

They hesitated—for a breath, a second too long—and instinct overrode instruction. The hug wasn’t premeditated. It landed somewhere between reflex and refusal—a two-second press of shoulder and wrist before the alarm chirped overhead.

A nearby staffer stepped in, voice clipped.

“Inmate and Mr. Cameron—physical contact is a breach. One more violation, and visitation privileges will be revoked. Understood?”

Chris flinched at the title. ‘Mr. Cameron,’ like he was some distant figure with clinical clearance. And Craig—just “Inmate.” Not even a number. Not even his name.

Chris stepped back, hands visible, face drawn.

“Understood. Sorry,” he said, voice low.

Craig didn’t speak, but his jaw flexed once. Hard.

They sat.

Silence layered the room like plastic wrap.

Chris finally murmured, “They don’t even say your name.”

Craig looked up, eyes dull. “Names have weight. They like you lighter here. And if you ask me, they just don’t care. They see failures come and go too often. I am inmate number 72293-A to the guards. The others don’t really talk much, but if they do… I’m Camry now.”

Chris wanted to argue. To drag Craig out and shake the dust off him.

Instead, he just nodded—barely.

“You’re not an inmate to me,” he said. “Nor Camry. You’re still Craig. All I have to say is that you’re lucky it was a Camry. Someone recently showed me photos of his classic car collection and one car stuck in my mind, so if you’d crashed a Volugrafo Bimbo, your nickname would be even more tragic now.”

Craig gave a thin smile, the kind that looked more like surrender.

“A what? You made that up.”

“No Sir, I swear it’s a real thing. Some tiny funky looking one-seater from around World War II usually in gummy bear colors. I’d pull it up for you on my phone, but guess what? It’s a tragic looking car with an even more tragic name.”

“Yeah, I know, phones are not allowed in here. I believe you. And you’re not Mr. Cameron. You’re Chris. The guy who’s been at my side through thick and thin since we could barely walk. The one who feeds me granola bars like they’re a cure-all.”

Chris exhaled, part guilt, part grief. “Guilty. I was gonna do that again, but they confiscated them. Tried to bring you some comfort from home—your blue hoodie, snacks, that book you reread when things got bad—but that nearly got me booted.”

Craig blinked once. No sigh. No gratitude. Just a flat, tight expression.

“Figures. It’s all about control.”

Chris swallowed. “I didn’t know.”

Craig’s voice dropped. “You don’t know a lot about this place. It makes rehab look like recess.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes tracking the corner where guards lingered with stiff expressions.

“That hoodie got me through a whole semester once. Not the classes—the cold. The shakes. You wouldn’t know. I’ve been doing this for a while.”

“I figured,” Chris said softly.

Craig didn’t meet his gaze. “I love that you thought about bringing me things. You picked well. Those things were important to me. Now they’re probably in a bin labeled ‘nonessential’, waiting to go home with you again.”

He paused.

“Wish I could swap spots with the hoodie—even if it meant riding home in your duffel. But I need this. I failed too hard. And I need to go through it until it finally sticks.”

Chris lowered his gaze, elbows tucked. “Sorry.”

Craig shrugged. “Not your fault. I landed myself this gig. Everyone here’s just trying not to rattle any cages.”

They sat in strained quiet.

Then: “They took my sketches last week,” Craig said. “Said I was drawing dissociative patterns. I was just doodling. Pretty sure I just suck at art if it looks dangerous to other people.”

Chris shrugged. “I’d hang your dissociation on a fridge. Maybe even frame it. I miss you, man. A lot. Every day.”

Craig laughed once—half a breath.

“Not as much as I miss you. I miss us. We always had the best times. I miss my family. And yours. It gets very lonely in here. I was never lonely back home.”

He looked down at the table.

“I know why my parents aren’t trying to visit. They’d freak out seeing me like this. My dad would try to take me home and get himself arrested. My mom would have a nervous breakdown.”

“I almost believe that,” Chris said. “Your mom really isn’t taking this too well. She really wants to see you, but I doubt she can handle it. But I had to come. They didn’t want me here, but I wasn’t gonna go down easy. Annoyed the intake officer until she gave in. Plus, got a letter from your shrink saying I’m good for you.”

He leaned forward, voice soft. “So I’ve got ninety minutes to be good for you. Take me in.”

Craig chuckled, but the sound was cracked.

“I just wanted you to know I’m still here,” Chris said. “You’re on all our minds. You’re not forgotten. You matter—to a lot of people.”

He hesitated.

“I know the timelines got messed up—I’m graduating soon, you won’t, and it’s not fair. But I’m not walking off without you. Just went ahead a bit. But I’ll be waiting. Until you’re ready.”

Craig blinked fast, then looked away.

“This place makes you feel like the outside world stopped.”

“It didn’t,” Chris said. “It paused for you.”

Craig nodded. “Then unpause me.”

“Stay strong a while longer. When you get out, you’ll be free. Really free. From this place and your demons.”

Craig looked sad and desperate for a moment, then forced a smile.

“So, tell me what’s new. I want every detail.”

The ninety minutes flew by like ninety seconds. Suddenly it was time to leave. Anxiety washed over Craig. Not yet. One more minute. But no. Rigid. Always. Time to go.

Chris glanced back one last time before the staffer gestured him toward the exit. Craig watched through the glass—just his best friend, nothing left to give but the look in his eyes. No words. Just a nod that said: don’t forget, I’ll be back.

Craig turned.

The hallway back to his cot was quiet except for the echo of boots and breath. His escort walked like a metronome—unreadable, unwavering. Craig shoved his hands into his pockets—mostly habit, partly nerves.

His fingers brushed something.

He paused. Glanced once at the guard. No reaction. Kept walking. Waited.

Back on his cot, with the lights low and his bunkmate snoring, Craig reached in again.

A granola bar.

Organic brand, eco-conscious wrap. Slightly scuffed. But across the edge of the label, in small dark ink, was a hand-drawn winking smiley face.

Not regulation. Not accidental.

Craig stared at it, breath caught.

Chris. He must have slipped it into his pocket during the awkward hug.

It was always granola bars. Seventh grade, finals week, breakups, broken bones—Chris’s answer to every crisis came packaged in oats and stubborn optimism. Chris’ way to give hope in physical form.

The wrapper crinkled in his palm. Not loud, but real. Real enough to anchor him.

For that flicker of a second, he wasn’t Camry. Wasn’t #72293-A. Wasn’t the inmate whose sketchbook got confiscated or the guy who hugged too long.

He was Craig Douglas. Worthy enough to be someone’s best friend. Scuba afficionado. The one who mattered enough to be remembered—and smuggled hope into.

He didn’t eat it. Not yet. Just held it. Let it sit heavy in his hand like a talisman. And smiled.

And for the first time in weeks, the ache inside him shifted. Not gone. But gentler. Like maybe he hadn’t disappeared.

Just paused. Still in play. Still part of something worth recovering.

Recovery & Routine in the Desert

Strangerville didn’t care about trauma, tattoos, or talent. About homesickness and loneliness. It cared about wake-up times, clean tests, and showing up whether you felt like it or not. Craig cycled through resentment, silence, then slow rebuilding. His bunkmate never asked personal questions. His commander once said, “You crack jokes to hide the fact you actually give a damn,” and Craig didn’t argue. He’d been thrown into solitary for three days just for trying to lighten the room with a one-liner. Humor had a cost here. Even personality wasn’t permitted unless it could be clinically justified.

He lived in desert dorms now. Not rehab. Not court-mandated therapy. Something else. Structure without sympathy. Everyone started out with no privileges. Those were earned, one by one. Misbehave and they were taken away. Eventually Craig was allowed to have things. Personal things.

Chris wrote once a week. Connor sent books. His parents visited but didn’t linger. And Craig started sketching again—not self-portraits, just shapes. Shadows. Stuff he didn’t have words for yet.

There were still nights he stared at that old photo Chris brought him. But now, he looked at himself in it differently.

Craig’s life had finally steadied into something resembling rhythm. He was nearly through bootcamp, physically stronger than he’d been since high school. The drills felt like muscle memory—something his body knew how to do even when his brain lagged behind.

In his weekly call with Chris, he joked, “Honestly? This place is just Coach Barton with cactus accents. Bark orders, run hills, puke in a bucket, repeat. I’m thriving.”

He was clean. Off the stabilizers. Sleeping six hours without interruption. Even his therapist had started using phrases like reentry plan and post-trauma integration. It wasn’t freedom, but it was forward-movement.

When Strangerville Got Stranger

It started as a joke.

Yard time was supposed to be dull—laps around a fenced-in perimeter under full surveillance, hydration rations, and carefully timed vitamin D. But lately, it came with entertainment. Civilians were wandering the desert beyond the wire. Not tourists. Not hikers.

Weird ones.

Eyes wide, feet dragging. Muttering at tumbleweeds. Staring down patches of dirt like the soil owed them an apology.

One guy in a full suit was spotted yelling at a cactus that “kept changing its name.” Another woman knelt near a desert thistle and sang lullabies until her voice cracked into static. That one was carted off by the military medics within minutes.

The recruits lost it. Laughed so hard they had to be ordered back into formation.

Riz clutched his gut, wheezing. “Dude, what’s in the water out here? Does everyone here cook meth in their basements or something?” Jenkins shouted through the fence: “Hey, lady! You get out of the sun, your brain is a raisin already!”

Craig smirked, arms crossed, ankles braced against the rusted bench in the corner. “I mean… credit where it’s due—this is way more fun than trust exercises. They are sniffing the good stuff here for sure.”

The recruits laughed. Jenkins doubled over. Riz mimed sniffing desert air like it was narcotic-grade breeze. One kid tried shouting back at the plant guy just to see if he talked. He didn’t. Just blank stares.

Then the guard barked, and the show ended.

But he watched. Closely.

Once, during lights-out, Craig couldn’t sleep, dreaming out the window, he saw a flash of movement past the fence line. A young man—barely older than him—staggering through the scrub brush in cargo shorts and no shoes, chasing something invisible. The guards didn’t react right away.

And Craig wasn’t sure… but he swore the guy was smiling. Like he’d just heard the world’s best joke. Like something had whispered sweet nothings to him from beneath the sand.

The desert had a way of drawing things out—both memories and mysteries.
And lately, both were getting louder.

Borrowed Freedom

Craig noticed something else. He did the math. Played the game. Got the prize.

The reward for a full thirty days clean, quiet, obedient. Like a good dog. Keep your head down, don’t mouth off, pee in a cup, and the system gives you a phone call. A paperback. A candy bar. If you’re really good, they let you walk past the gates. First one with an escort, and an ankle monitor, of course. Then alone. For a couple of hours. Try to run, get into trouble or be back late and that was it, forfeited another chance at the illusion of freedom for good.

He went into every store in town. That’s where he met her.

He literally ran into her, looking around town enjoying his moments of borrowed freedom, when he collided into her exiting a store. She introduced herself as ‘Jo’, presumably short for something.

Jo was local—born and baked in Strangerville, a town that looked like a horse ranch collided with a half-built casino, and someone decided the aesthetic was ‘classified with neon lights, barbed wire and horse hitches’. She knew the desert like a second language. Could tell you which roads burned out alternators fastest, and which neighborhoods had started ‘actin’ off’.

She carried it all in stride. And she looked country. Not pretty per se, but not ugly either. Faded hair of an almost indistinguishable shade, either blonde or sun-bleached brown. He couldn’t tell the color of her eyes. Scuffed boots like she’d survived four generations of rodeos. A drawl low enough to slow your pulse. Mint gum always tucked behind her molars. Dry humor that could unhook a bar fight before the first swing landed. And the obligatory cowboy hat.

Still, it felt like flying. The kind of high Craig hadn’t known outside of chemicals. A wind that didn’t scream correctional. A sky that didn’t wear rules.

He was grinning like an idiot when he bumped into her outside the local hardware store—nearly walked into a sack of horse feed. She raised an eyebrow before he could apologize.

“You look like someone who got hit hard and kept walking,” she said. “That’s either bravery… or stupidity.”

Craig blinked. Grinned, slow. “It’s a toss up. I am … Camry.” He chose his new behated nickname, part afraid the news may have made it over here, part because Craig hadn’t been the type of guy worth introducing to people of late, and part because he didn’t know her.

“Jo.” Was her rough-toned but easy comeback, followed by an outstretched hand, roughish to the touch, a tight grip and a spirited shake.

Craig liked her immediately.

She wasn’t the type of girl he usually would go talk to, probably would never even have noticed her before unless it was to make fun of her. She didn’t ask why he was here or where he was from. About his name, clearly a nickname. Didn’t flinch at the barcode stitched over his pocket.

She worked part-time at a secondhand bookshop off the main drag, wedged between a neon diner and a pawnshop that doubled as a UFO souvenir depot. Her nails were always oil-smudged from also helping out at the local car repair, her hair pulled into a ponytail with rebellious babyhairs always sticking out, and she never needed a greeting to start a conversation. Just started talking.

The second time Craig met her was during the next one of his sanctioned R&R blocks. He was drifting through the poetry section, half-pretending to not stare at her, while wondering if, and how, to strike up conversation with her again. Would she even remember him?

Jo glanced over. “Looking for the meaning of life, or just trying to impress someone who hates punctuation?”

Craig laughed. Real. Sharp. Unfiltered. It startled him.

They talked. Then talked again. Three times, stitched together with bad jokes and no expectations. She never asked why his eyes looked too tired for twenty-two. He never said he was in recovery. They just sat on cracked stools surrounded by dusty paperbacks and let honesty unfold like origami.

This wasn’t romantic. But Craig felt present around her. Not as the ex-quarterback who failed out of his own future, or the addict convict keeping his head down while trying not to relapse. Just a guy. Still reshaping his edges.

And then he noticed she wasn’t just reading books—she was taking notes.

Old geology reports, water toxin charts, anecdotal journal entries from ranchers who swore their herds started moving in sync. One afternoon she showed him a crude sketch of a vine she’d seen in the canyon. Bioluminescent. Pulsing. And not native.

“Somethin’s wrong here,” Jo said once, quiet but firm. “It’s not just weird anymore—it’s dangerous. My neighbor’s kid forgot how to speak for two weeks after going near one. My uncle went blind for six weeks tryin’ to pull those weeds out of their yard. No diagnosis. Just ‘heat fatigue. For six weeks? Fuck me running, what a pile of BS. Something is clearly wrong here and getting’ worse.’”

Craig shrugged like it didn’t bother him. But it did.

She called it “The Wanting.” That look people got when they weren’t themselves anymore. It terrified her. Because she’d grown up with these people—and something was ripping them apart.

Craig knew more than she did. He was already seeing parts of the outbreak in classified briefings he’d accidentally eavesdropped on back at the base. But he couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t say her instincts were right.

Instead, he just listened. More carefully.
Then she stopped showing up.
No warning. No explanation.

The third time of him looking for her came and went. Craig lingered longer than he should have, pacing between shelves he’d already memorized. No sign of her. Just the dusty silence of a shop missing its pulse. He lingered around the general store and the car repair shop. She never showed. If he did dare ask someone all he got were shrugs and ‘Ain’t seen her in a minute.’

He couldn’t text. Couldn’t call. Phones weren’t permitted except the ones hanging on the wall for supervised calls. Emotional dependencies weren’t encouraged—they were peeled off like old bandages.

Three days later, he saw her again.

On the news. Silent broadcast. Rec room monitor. An older image of Jo, then a canyon ravine. Local Woman Severely Injured in Canyon Fall — Possession Suspected

Craig froze.

Her name flickered across the bottom of the screen. Her face—the one that used to smirk at his awful metaphors—looked hollow. Not hurt. Not scared.

Vacant.

She hadn’t died. Not yet. But something had taken her.

She’d chased answers that no one else wanted to admit existed. She’d wandered too far. And Craig felt helpless. Like he should do something, but couldn’t.

The Shift Toward Purpose

He started asking questions.
Quiet ones. Discreet ones. The kind that carried desperation rather than defiance.

Low-ranking officers brushed him off. Younger recruits who used to laugh with him stopped cracking jokes.

One night, after lockdown, a man with a blank uniform and a government-grade stare cornered Craig outside the barracks. No rank. No name.

“If you’re done laughing,” the man said, “there’s a program that could use people like you. People who ask questions. People who want answers and aren’t easily deterred.”

Craig didn’t answer, but he didn’t look away either.
The man continued: “People who’ve been broken, and survived anyway. People who don’t just give up.”

It was unofficial. Hidden behind briefing folders, clearance tags, and a verbal NDA that tightened its grip on every participant.

Craig enlisted the next morning.

Not for glory. Not to prove anything. Just so he’d never have to watch another Jo jump off a cliff while everyone explained it away.

The Addicted Desert

They called it ‘The Bloom’.

Locals had names for it—Memory Flower, Devil’s Vine, Whisper Root. The military gave it a case number. Craig called it what it was: dangerous.

It wasn’t just hallucinogenic.

The Bloom’s spores activated dopamine receptors on contact. One inhale, one taste—and reality unraveled. The response was near-instant: obsession, erratic behavior, euphoric compulsion. It was the addiction Craig once knew intimately—now tangled in biology.

And it was spreading. And kept getting worse. Quit being funny.

Over two dozen civilians were hospitalized within weeks. Six didn’t make it out. A child suffered a seizure so severely he forgot his name for a month. Emergency responders developed rashes that didn’t fade. One botanist reportedly clawed at his own skin, claiming the plant was “trying to graft him in.” Over a few more weeks those numbers grew. More injuries. More people went missing without a trace. More deaths.

Jo had breathed it in. She was another casualty of The Bloom. She hadn’t died—not technically, not yet. But she was in ICU, unconscious, bones fractured, eyes flickering with shadows no one could name.

Conspiracy followed.

Some said the Bloom was lab-made—genetic code too precise, root behavior too structured. A weapon disguised as flora. Others called it a failed science experiment, the result of splicing neurological stimulants with desert-resilient growth hormones. Theories flew: defense department testing gone rogue, underground pharmacology gone commercial, blacksite development scrubbed from records.

No agency took responsibility. No lab claimed the patent. No government acknowledged ownership. Worst of all: nobody did anything about it.

And people kept dying.

Craig knew addiction. He’d lived inside it. But this was different. This wasn’t craving born from pain—this was possession, chemical puppetry with no strings visible. But it did serious damage and could kill people just like his demons could. Destroyed lives, families, dreams, friendships, just like his demons had.

That’s when he stopped being afraid. And started fighting back.

Purpose on a Leash

The outbreak didn’t start loud.

Just shifts in rhythm. Toddlers whispering full sentences with vacant eyes. Wanderers forgetting their names. Security footage corrupted near the canyon. Spores blooming where no other plants could.

Craig was six months into a locked rehab cycle when they tagged him for the exploration unit.

No medals. No orientation. Just a clipboard and a line: “You qualified. Controlled deployment.”

Incarceration meant limited options. But they saw potential in Craig—his resilience, his addiction history, his ability to spot behavioral shifts before they fractured.

The first trip was short. A sealed underground facility, half-consumed by vine and dust. Military handlers marched five inmates into a long-abandoned lab. Craig among them. Gas masks issued, no questions allowed.

It was worse than they expected.

One operative froze mid-tunnel, staring at a crack in the floor like it whispered back. Another tried climbing a rusted pipe and sang to a fungus bloom on the wall. Spores had slipped into the ventilation. The masks weren’t enough.

Craig barely made it out. Ribs tight, chest scorched. He spent two nights coughing into a pillow, unsure if his mind was still his.

The program was classified. No outside communication. No acknowledgment. No permission to be proud. No telling, ever, or risk serious legal repercussions, something Craig really wasn’t keen on.

Chris didn’t know Craig was doing something that mattered. Craig’s mother didn’t know he’d stopped being a shadow. Connor probably still thought Craig was drowning.

So, Craig wrote letters he couldn’t send.

Chris, dude, if you saw me now… maybe you’d believe it. I’m not surviving—I’m intercepting the next drama, actually doing something useful for once. Something for the greater good.

Mom—stop worrying about me. Start worrying about people who think the desert’s only dangerous when it’s hot. It’s worse when it starts whispering. But I got this.

He kept the letters folded beneath his mattress. Neatly arranged like pages of someone else’s future.

The Birthday Oath

Craig turned twenty-two in silence. No cake. No family. His parents were supposed to call, but never did. Then a note slipped under his door: Approved Visit.

It was unexpected. A rare gesture—maybe someone in command trying to be “human.” Maybe just a clerical loophole. Either way, Craig was allowed a visitor outside of regular visitation for a few hours on base, in a neutral meeting area, with a familiar face.

Chris walked into the observation lounge carrying the cake box.

Craig stood up, genuinely surprised. “They actually let you in?”

Chris grinned. “They did. But they assaulted the cake.”

Craig blinked. “They what?”

Chris placed the box on the table, opening it with a flourish that revealed a slightly caved-in lemon blueberry cake that looked like it had been through a war.

“They confiscated it at the checkpoint,” he explained. “Then butchered it like I was hiding Jimmy Hoffa in the frosting.”

Craig stared in disbelief. “They dissected your cake?”

“With surgical commitment,” Chris said. “And a lot of passive-aggressive anger.”

Craig snorted. “Did you bake this?”

“Of course, only the best for my bestie, made with lots of love and good intentions, but severe lack of talent. Just like the card to go with it.” Chris’s expression darkened with mock tragedy. “My original was store-bought and glorious. Holographic. Bikini dancers who moved when you tilted it. Played ‘Happy Birthday’ in steel-drum Hawaiian synth.”

Craig raised an eyebrow. “You got me a tropical striptease?”

“I tried. They flagged the sound chip as a ‘suspicious digital emitter.’ It’s probably sitting in an evidence bag as we speak.”

Craig smirked, eyebrows raised.

“So…”

“Soooo … this.”

Chris slid over a hand-drawn card, scribbled in smudged pen was what looked like a fish wearing a party hat. The fins were bent. The eyes looked alarmed. It was objectively terrible. Craig stared at it. Then absolutely lost it.

Full-bellied laughter tore out of him, echoing through the sterile room like something wild and alive.

Chris joined in, cracking up so hard he doubled over, trying—and failing—to keep it quiet.

That’s when the guard by the door stepped forward, arms stiff. “Tone it down, gentlemen.”

Chris straightened, biting his own lips, still choking down giggles. Craig wiped tears from his eyes, struggling to breathe.

“I haven’t laughed like this in over a year,” Craig said, voice cracking around the smile.

Chris nodded. “Get it? Fish … marine bio. I tried, man. I tried.”

Craig held it up like sacred art. “Your mom owns an actual art gallery. She can paint anything and it looks real. And this gem was made by her genetic legacy? Poor Keira would sob over this. But I am loving it. This will go up on my wall!”

“What can I say,” Chris said chuckling. “I take after my dad.”

Craig leaned in, eyes twinkling. “No kidding. Dr. Connor Cameron Junior—the sequel. You think your mom was even present at your conception or did your dad just clone himself?”

Chris shrugged. “She claims it was romantic. In the most censored way. I never dared to ask anything after that. Grandma says I have mom’s brooding ways.”

“Bro, you are about as brooding as a squirrel on meth.”

They both broke into another fit of laughter, this time quieter, but no less sincere.

Eventually, they tore into the cake—sliced through security trauma and frosting fractures. It was surprisingly good. The tangy lemon, the soft crumb. The blueberries weren’t evenly distributed, but it didn’t matter.

Craig took a second bite. Then a third.

“This tastes like effort,” he said softly. “Like someone gave a damn. Tastes great.”

Chris just smiled. “I do.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Craig didn’t feel like an inmate or an addict or a mistake being handled, half-way swept under some rug. Out of sight, out of mind.

He felt like a person. Like a friend. Like someone still worth making a cake for. Purposely forgetting the fact that his parents had meant to come, but his mother couldn’t handle it. So instead it was to be a call, which never happened. When his sister called for him later, he found out their mom had a nervous breakdown the night before Craig’s birthday, sobbing over baby photos muttering something about her sweet baby boy. She ‘celebrated’ his birthday in the hospital. Craig pushed all that far away. Chris was here. No nervous breakdown. Just disfigured cake and card, but from the heart.

They laughed. Ate. Played normal. For a little while things felt normal again. Gave Craig hope that normal wasn’t completely removed from his options. Even the guards relaxed.

So much so that at one point Craig saw a rare chance and followed Chris into the bathroom. The second guard had left his post, maybe to use the facilities or get coffee. The other guard was scrolling through his phone when he got tired of watching two boys laugh at dumb shit.

Chris startled when he turned to close the door behind him, but Craig squeezed in. “Whoa—dude, are we twelve again? You can go pee alone.”

Craig didn’t laugh. Put his finger to his lips, locked the door.

Chris immediately sobered, whispering. “Okay… you’re serious.”

Craig kept his voice low. Steady. “It’s bad. I know you heard about the outbreak here. It’s much worse than they’ll admit. I can’t go into detail—NDAs and crap. But I met someone, Jo, and she was onto something about this. Not paranoid. Neither am I. And now she is fighting for her life, whatever that stuff is that makes people crazy nearly killed her, still might. People are getting hurt and dying around here Chris.”

Chris frowned, skeptical. “You sound like—”

“I know. Like I’m using again.” Craig met his eyes. “But I’m not. And you know how I get when I’m clear. You know me. This is me, Chris.”

Chris paused. Medical instinct kicking in. Craig wasn’t jittery. Not euphoric. Just precise. Excited.

Chris nodded slowly. “You haven’t sounded this—Craig-ish—since well … in a while. Okay, how can I help?”

Craig spoke, Chris believed him. Listened. Then came the plan.

While both got yelled at for being in the bathroom together, they managed to enjoy the rest of the visit and some presumable birthday leniency.

With some trial and error, they eventually created a dead drop in the desert—an abandoned radio shack off Route 92. Craig left notes when he was allowed out for 2 hours for R&R, symptom logs, even plant fragments, things he learned in the secret briefings. Chris ran samples in university labs under unrelated study headers.

One week in, Chris called in a favor and secured a modified hazmat suit—military-grade filtration, helmet ventilation, spores-resistant lining. Craig smuggled it inside, hidden under an authorized shipment of training gear.

Two weeks later, after several fails, Craig finally managed to pilfer a high clearance keycard.

It belonged to a staffer who snuck out for cigarettes behind the labs. He left his lanyard unattended on a hook. Craig’s fingers, trained from hiding pill bottles and liquor flasks from dorm inspections, were nimble and fast.

No alarms. No suspicion.

The Strangerville Mystery

They hid the package off-site, half-buried beside a flagged trail marker near the lab. The instructions were scrawled inside a repurposed snack wrapper. One syringe with an inoculate for him. Another vial of high dosage serum for his plan.

Craig retrieved it during his next scheduled lab run, disguised as a routine external assignment. Injected himself first. Suited up using scrounged gear—filtered mask, reinforced layers, the hidden dose tucked inside the chest panel.

The lab didn’t exist on maps. It throbbed beneath the crust of Strangerville, buried under a defunct observatory like something the earth tried—and failed—to forget.

Craig entered at 02:12. Two checkpoints bypassed. One maintenance hatch slipped through, disguised by the suit Chris and Cadie had modified with surgical precision.

The air changed the moment he crossed the threshold. Not just temperature—texture. It was like breathing inside a fever dream: dense, warping, hostile to lungs. Craig could see the air now—heat shimmered like liquid glass—and he knew: entering without a suit meant suicide. He whispered a prayer that Chris’s modifications would hold.

The deeper he moved, the darker the chamber became. Not from absence of light—but absorption. Like the shadows had grown greedy.

He tried not to look. But some of the shapes tucked in corners weren’t just piles of debris. They had form. Shoulders. Fingers twisted around vents. One slumped against a console, half-fused with its seat. Human, once. Now claimed.

Craig gulped, but didn’t stare. He couldn’t. If he hesitated long enough to count them, he might lose the nerve to finish what he came to do.

The Bloom’s core sat behind biometric glass in a containment chamber built for secrets, not safety. It wasn’t a plant—it was neurological architecture. Roots writhed like cerebral matter. Vines pulsed with electrical signals. It didn’t grow. It calculated.

The walls hummed with purpose.

Craig activated the dispersal device—a chemical counter-agent rigged together by Chris, its compound based loosely on the Bloom’s own protein code. No label. No precedent. But Cadence had helped—this was her domain—and between the three of them, theory became gamble. Craig pushed it through the ventilation system.

The chamber responded. Once. Twice. Then began to fray.

But the spore cluster at the center didn’t die.

It ‘screamed’. Not audibly—but psychically. It clawed through the architecture, through Craig’s visor, straight into the scarred crevices of his brain—the ones that once craved escape more than oxygen.

He staggered. Old memories flared like flare guns in his mind—relapse, withdrawal, nights he couldn’t account for. The Bloom knew where to press. And it pressed hard.

But Craig held. Held like he never had before. He was used to nightmares, those at night and the waking kind. This couldn’t hurt him anymore than he was already hurting on a good day.

He planted the thermite charges the commanding officers had given him and the others along the chamber’s base and set the countdown.

He fled. Yelling at everyone to get out, now! They did. Two of his fellow inmates had a third in their middle, dragging them along. Coughing officers scrambled out. Everyone collapsed into the desert sand, heaving for air, but everyone was accounted for so Craig relaxed, coughing once he took his helmet off. The lab detonated behind them. Not cinematic. Not cool or pretty. Just violent.

The blast vaporized evidence. The air shifted. Vines outside withered into nothing within less than an hour. No headlines followed. No investigations. Just a clipped segment on the local news about a fire in an abandoned facility. No casualties reported.

But that week, people stopped humming lullabies to traffic cones.

No one knew. Except Craig. And Chris. And those keeping this classified. Forever.

And that was enough.

Craig didn’t need praise. He needed a reckoning—and he got one. A very personal and private one. He proved something to himself. That night, he sat in his barracks. Hands unclenched. Breathing like he meant it.

That night, Craig didn’t cry. He didn’t sneak anything or self-sabotage. He just slept. For the first time in months—deeply.

The Envelope

The room was dim, quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of vitals and the soft hum of filtered air. Jo lay in the hospital bed—still, bruised, healing. Her eyelids fluttered beneath sedation, like dreams were trying to escape through them.

In the doorway stood a young man with blond hair, hoodie sleeves pushed up, sneakers scuffed from desert dust. Beside him, a young woman with blond curls to her shoulders leaned in, scanning the vitals chart one last time.

They exchanged a glance.

“You think she’ll wake soon?” the girl whispered.

“Soon enough, everything looks good. Just needs to heal now,” the young man replied. His voice was low but certain—like someone who’d spent years learning how to read silences.

He took a step forward, gently pulling his hand from hers. Reaching into the pouch of his hoodie, he produced a thin envelope. Handwritten. Creased at the edges. He placed it on the nightstand beside Jo.

Then rejoined the girl. She smiled, questioning. He nodded.

Hand in hand they left quietly.

Moments later, Jo stirred.

Blinking. Breathing.

She turned her head to the nurse adjusting her IV. “Did I just have a visitor or was I imagin’?”

The nurse smiled. “Nah, ya did. Two, actually. Your friends just left. Sorry ya missed ‘em.”

Jo frowned softly. “Friends?”

The nurse pointed to the envelope. “They left you that.”

Jo reached for it with a trembling hand. She just … knew.

She gasped. “Camry was here?!”

The nurse shook her head. “No. Boy named Chris, with a young woman, think she said her name was Katie.”

Jo’s brows knit. “I don’t know any Chris or Katie…”

She tore the envelope open. Inside: one sheet of paper, folded neatly. Her eyes scanned the page. The penmarks were bold, deliberate.

Craig – or to her, Camry’s – voice, alive in ink.

Hey Jo, I wish I could’ve written you sooner. You saw it before anyone did. You named it before anyone listened. And you went chasing answers no one else dared to look for.

I’m sorry I couldn’t help.

Sorry for letting you fall alone. I watched your courage and mistook it for stubbornness. I thought I was protecting you by saying and doing nothing—but silence can be its own kind of poison.

The thing is—I kept trying to survive. You taught me how to fight – and live.

The Bloom is gone now. I am sure you heard. If your dreams feel quieter, it’s because it finally stopped whispering.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be allowed to say this out loud. But if you’re reading this, then you’re alive. And you deserve that—more than anyone.

Take it slow. Heal fast. Rest well. You’re stronger than the desert. —C

Jo stared at the letter. Her breath hitched once, then steadied.

Outside, beyond the sterile windows, dawn was crawling its way into Strangerville—just barely. But for the first time in weeks, it wasn’t humming.

It was just quiet. And she let it be.

Exit Stage Left

They pulled him off his cot without warning.

Boots in the hallway. Clipboard. A nod. No explanation.

Craig followed, heartbeat a steady thud behind his ribs. They led him down unfamiliar corridors—ones reserved for meetings he’d never earn. Into a room colder than most, with metal walls that echoed every breath. He sat alone, staring at the door like it might inhale him.

Then it opened—loud, deliberate. Craig flinched.

Three officers marched in. Pressed uniforms, unreadable faces. The oldest—broad-shouldered with a silver insignia and leather gloves—dropped a manila folder on the table.

THUMP.

Craig twitched again. The officer sat. Opened the file.

“Craig Matteo Douglas, age twenty-two. Former marine biology major. Promising athletic scholarship. Bright trajectory. Then…” He paused, eyes sharp. “…a crash. A spiral. Rap sheet in under a year. What happened, son?”

Craig shrugged, subdued. “Life, I guess.”

“Life?” The officer leaned forward. “More specific, Mr. Douglas. Broken home? Wrong crowd?”

“What?! Why?”

“Humor me. I’m gauging stability.”

Craig hesitated. “Nah, my parents are great, even my sister has her moments. And my crowd is grade A, you won’t find any better friends. As for stability? Yeah, I guess I am stable again. I’m not using anymore. Not in withdrawal. Learned a lot of lessons. I’ve got control, at least most days. As for the why… it’s the reason most guys do dumb shit—sorry, dumb stuff.”

A beat.

Craig shrugged, elaborated “A chick. That’s why.”

“I see. A broken heart. In your early twenties.” The man nodded. “Yes. That’ll do it. Makes sense. Not a risk factor, just … well, as you put it, life.”

He closed the folder. Neatly. Like a decision had already been made.

“You strike me as smart, Mr. Douglas. Spirited. Brave when it counts. While I cannot officially acknowledge the circumstances…as you were reminded plentifully by now, none of what happened ever did happen. But, as a reward for good behavior and your proven bravery and resourcefulness, we’ve elected to waive the remainder of your sentence. Congratulations, son. Make it count by making better choices.”

Craig stiffened. Didn’t speak. Eyes wide, trying to process. Did that man just say what he thought he heard him say?!

“Two conditions,” the officer continued. “Never speak of the incident. Not to anyone. Not even your ‘great’ parents and ‘bearable’ sister, nor your ‘grade A’ friends. Copy? And no relapses. You’ve been gifted a second chance, long before you were due a review. Use it well.”

The officer stood. Craig did too.
The man extended a hand.
Craig shook it. Firm.

“Thank you for your service to this country, Mr. Douglas.”

“Yeah, sure. Anytime… So I can… go home now? For real?!”

“A car will take you to the airfield. Helicopter from there. Drops you at San Sequoia Medical rooftop. Your home’s within walking distance I have been told, so that should be doable?”

Craig nodded. “Hell yeah! That’s doable, Sir, all day long! Awesome.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Douglas. I would wish you good luck for your future, but I do not believe in luck. I believe in us making our own luck and in choices. Make better ones in future, like you have proven that you can.”

The officers turned. Two nodded. No words.

Craig lingered. “Hey… sorry, didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t give it.”

Craig raised an eyebrow. “Ah, got it. Classified. Ey, any chance of a reward? Like money, I mean? I’ve got debts. Crushing ones. I mean, I saved an entire town, basically …”

The man didn’t smile. But his eye twitched—maybe a wink.

“Don’t push it, Mr. Douglas.”

Back at his quarters, Craig packed slowly. His street clothes had reappeared when he returned, neatly laid out on his cot like foreign skin. His cellmate blinked, half curious.

“They letting you out?”

“Looks like it.” Craig tossed his candy stash over to him. Except one.

A granola bar. Smiley face still drawn across the wrapper. Chris’ snuck-in gift had become more of a talisman to Craig over the months. He would never eat this, but keep it forever.

He pocketed it, quietly. Then he was escorted out. The gates opened with a near cinematic sound.

Craig walked out.

Heart hammering. Following the officer toward the helicopter—its rotors already slicing the air.

When it rose higher and higher, Craig didn’t breathe. He felt. The desert shrank beneath him. The fences. The rehab corridors. The lab with Bloom.

Gone.

And then—San Sequoia came into view. Sunlight over rooftops. Neighborhoods he used to dream about escaping. Now it all felt like the most beautiful place on earth, like a warm hug.

He wiped his eyes.
The helicopter left immediately after he got out, a hospital security guy lead him down to the lobby then left him, unceremoniously. Craig’s knees felt softer as he walked the old familiar route. He and Chris had walked it so many time, visiting Connor at work, picking up Chris from helping his dad out during school breaks.

His childhood home rose behind the final bend like an omen. The final step was the hardest. Knocking. He hadn’t stood at his own front door in almost a year.

His dad opened it first—jaw slack, eyes wide.

“Hi dad. Sorry didn’t call. They let me out early. Good behavior.” Craig offered a half-truth, since he couldn’t give them the truth.

Massimo had aged a decade in that year, but he grabbed his son and nearly broke him in half. Craig felt overwhelmed. His duffle bag dropped to the ground.

Then his mom burst from the kitchen, dish towel falling, scream tearing through the air before she wrapped him in a hug that felt like life restarted.

Craig stood there. Wrapped in the arms of the people who’d never stopped waiting. And finally—finally—home didn’t feel like punishment.

It felt like permission.

The moment he got to his room for the first time in a felt forever, he grabbed his phone, still on the charger, and texted Chris. Within 30 minutes he was at his house, with Connor and Keira. An improv celebration of second chances.

Pickin’ Up Patches

It was the final semester break before Chris would graduate. Craig and Chris were staying at the Kershaw ranch for a few weeks—crammed into one small bedroom, the bed more firm than forgiving and probably older than either of them. Chris was there helping Jackson with horse health logs and wrangling techniques for his public health elective. Craig tagged along after Jackson offered him a short-term gig as a ranch hand. Paid, of course.

It wasn’t much money, but it was honest. And after everything, that mattered. Craig couldn’t afford a vacation, so the boys used this as the next best thing to an adventure together.

Craig had told Chris he wanted to start paying his parents back for all the debt and chaos he’d caused. Jackson didn’t ask questions—he just handed Craig a shovel and said, “The horses ain’t picky, long as ya shovel straight.”

Jackson tipped his hat, shifting from boot to boot as the sun slunk over Chestnut Ridge like syrup over a biscuit. The barn smelled of hay, sweat, and one horse in particular who refused to believe in personal space. A handful of ranchhands moved like clockwork behind him—each one sun-chapped, sharp-eyed, and stuffed with so much drawl they made Beau sound polished.

“Tomorrow’s a big’un,” Jackson drawled, squinting toward the arena where his stallion Blaze was pacing like a drama queen.

Chris glanced up from the trough, sneakers now more dust than textile. “Big how?”

Jackson’s twelve-year-old son Beau lit up from his perch on the tack bench, boots dangling. “We’re gon’ go pickin’ up Patches from the Dalton’s. He’s done studdin’.”

Craig froze, wiping hay from his jeans and rubbing his face like it might clear the confusion. “Wait—the only Patches I know is Chris’ Grandpa Chase’s nickname for his wife Hailey… and I really hope this isn’t that. Poor Grandma Hailey.”

Chris choked. Jackson laughed. Beau was snorting for laughter.

“Nah,” Beau managed between giggles. “Nah, not gramma. Patches is my dad’s other stallion. He been at the Dalton ranch… Dad, how am I gon’ explain studdin’ without gettin’ in trouble?”

Jackson grinned, tipping his head toward the boys. “Just say yer mama and I dropped him off a couple weeks ago to make friends with their mares. For money.”

Craig blinked. “Got it. Picking up the bro after his romantic getaway. Copy that. I’ll be sure to high-five that horse and admit I am jealous. Even livestock has more game than me these days.”

“Don’t be. When horses go at it there is often a lot of bitin’ and kickin’ involved. Unless that’s yer gear, no judgment. But we got a couple more stops in Strangerville before we get ol’ Patches, stockin’ up and such. Saw they got a good sale on feed and supplies I need. We’re gonna make a whole day of it. Don’t say I never take ya nowhere, Chris.” Jackson laughed.

“Yeah, super Jackson. To Strangerville, which I have been to a couple times now thanks to Craig, and honestly, once would have been plenty. Plus, Craig is probably not ultra-keen on going back there.”

“Nope, Craig is not. But I signed on to help and Jackson is paying me, so I am gonna keep my head low and just do as told. If we need to go shopping in Strangerville and pick up your stallion after he got laid, so be it. At least he’s gonna be one happy and relaxed horsie.”

One of the ranchhands—a broad man named Chuck whose beard looked like it had survived a dozen bar fights—chimed in with a snort. “I dunno ‘bout that, buddy. Was talkin’ to one of the Dalton’s hands the other night and he said that damn horse raised so much hell. Bit one of their stablecrew so bad, fella had to get stitches, and one of them mares kicked through the barn wall when they tried to bring Patches to her.”

Craig’s eyes widened. “Why does everything here kick?”

Jackson chuckled. “Same reason everything here bites. You’re in the county now, Craig. We’re rough, tough and scruff. Word of advice, he does bite, but in front of him is still the safest place for you city boys. Don’t step behind Patches unless you wanna get kicked clean into autumn and be careful, he can kick sideways too. He don’t like strangers to begin with, especially not when he’s comin’ home.”

Craig muttered, “Great. I’ve never seen a horse up close before I got here, and from my experience so far, they are bigger than I expected, messier, louder, and definitely angrier. Those things are not elegant like everyone says, they are stinky, mean, kicking and biting shit machines.”

Beau puffed his chest. “If ya think that about Blaze and the mares, then ya in for a big surprise with Patches—he’s real spirited, he and Blaze really don’t get along, worse when one o’them been gone a while. He bites like one o’them snappin’ turtles.”

Another ranchhand walked by carrying saddles, side-eyeing Craig. “City boys think horses are jus’ like bikes. Buy yerself a fancy one, ride it around to show off and then put ‘em in a barn till ya feel like it again, while they just stand ‘round bein’ cute. They ain’t, and that’s all I am gonna say to that.”

“Well, at least bikes don’t … oh shit!” Craig had turned and stepped right into a fresh pile.

“Ha ha ha literally a self-fulfilling prophecy… eeeewww” Chris laughed, the boys wrestled, stumbled and both ended up falling right into a squishy fresh puddle of piss.

Beau almost fell over laughing and snorting, as did the ranch hands, before Jackson came over with a hose, making Chris and Craig spray apart running as he aimed fully at them.

Laughing, he turned it off to reveal two yelling 22-year-olds, dripping wet.

“Head on inside to shower and change. Oh, and hang on one sec. Got somethin’ useful for ya,” he headed into the small barn, then returned with two old wide-brimmed cowboy hats and two pairs of old faded cowboy boots, handing Chris and Craig each a set.

Chris nudged Craig. “Oh jeeze, you’re kidding me, Jackson. Hey Craig, now we’re going full-on yee-haw.”

“Yeah. Can’t wait to step into someone’s foot fungus and release headlice on my 75-dollar haircut. Whose were these before? They stink like a crusty old sauna nobody ever cleaned.”

“Mine.” Jackson gave him this look, part warning, part amusement. You could almost see the ‘gulp’ in Craig’s face. Jackson just shook his head, one arm around each boy. “Y’all’ll learn. One way or ‘nother. Y’all are gon’ thank me tomorrow for these. Especially when ya see yer first snake. They can get ya in sneaker, but not in them boots.”

Next Morning – Downtown Strangerville

The next morning started with rolling laughter when after moments of horror glancing at the ancient worn boots Chris finally slipped his pair on. Disgusted Craig followed suit, mumbling about foot fungus and things that probably died in those since they came out of a barn and the leather was worn, stiff and cracked. But once they tested out the hats, they could barely keep it together for western inspired antics. Just some weeks ago Craig hardly remembered how to laugh and now he was gasping for air while just belly and cheeks hurt from doing it so much.

Still bubbling with chuckles as they stepped into the living area/kitchen where breakfast smelled enticing. Jackson and Beau were already waiting.

“No hats indoors! Considered rude in these here neck o’the woods. If ya gonna be stayin’ for a minute best learn the rules, case I gotta send ya clowns over to a neighbor or somethin’.” Jackson told them, pointing to hooks by the front door, then added more quietly. “Don’t need ya two out there embarassin’ me. I can do that jus’ fine on my own.”

“I was gon’ say, Pa. Everyone still talks about Boone’s funeral where ya …”

“Eat yer damn eggs before they go cold, son!” Jackson cut Beau off gruffly, but both grinned, even when Jackson nudged his son.

Who’s Boone and what happen at their funeral?” Craig whispered to Chris as they hung their hats up. Chris whispered back “I’ll tell ya later. It’s how he won my aunt Bri back, whacky story.” (* re-read all that in the 4 chapter arc starting with The Four Winds Saga, Chapter 1)

Seated next to each other they joked about headlice and fleas, surprised how much better eggs, bacon, toast and coffee tasted out in the country following an honest day’s work, while looking at another full day of manual labor outdoors.

After about two hours for morning chores, followed by packing up for the day trip, including rope mishaps, hay dust sneeze attacks and wood splinters in various body parts, plus one very much failed attempt by Craig to “bond” with a horse using sandwich crusts, Jackson wrangled Chris, Craig and Beau into the truck after lessons on trailer hitching.

And off to Strangerville it went.

The idea gave Craig odd feelings. It hadn’t been that long since he was released from the facility and coming back here made him fear somehow someone might change their mind and would just grab him and decide to keep him for the rest of his original sentence term.

At noon the truck plus horse trailer was parked crooked beside a diner, half-blocking the pedestrian walk, trailer dust still swirling behind it in hot air thick as molasses. Heavy sacks of feed were passed forward like it was the barn Olympics. Beau dragged the sacks to the truck, Jackson handed up the loads, while Chris and Craig stood shirtless in the bed of the truck, meanwhile grateful for the wide-brimmed hats, sweat and dust caking their skin like accidental camouflage.

Beau side-eyed Craig. “Tryin’ to get girls, huh?” gesturing when he took his shirt off revealing his buff chest from his active high school football days.

Craig huffed. “We’re literally standing in the back of an old beat up truck that’s probably older than me among a pile of whatever those horse candy looking things are, Beau. I am filthy, I stink and this is a travesty. If that attracts any girls, I’m concerned.”

“Just horse pellets, it’s feed, not candy. And ya never know,” Beau drawled with a shrug. “Some girls like real men who know how to use their hands for more than just typin’. I know Ma likes herself a cowboy. But my momma’s got good taste, right Pa?”

“Took ‘er a bit, but came to her senses, yup. I am more concerned where ya getting’ so caught up on what girls like, son, seein’ how yer twelve years old. Thinkin’ we might need to have a certain talk ‘bout all that soon.” Jackson pressed out between heaving heavy sacks up the truck.

“Nah Pa, I know all I need to know from watchin’ them horses. I am good.”

Jackson shot him a glare that sent Chris and Craig into a laughing fit, everyone at this point probably imagining Beau in a few years as a teen ready for his first real taste at love, trying to apply his collective works of horse romance knowledge to some hapless girl he’s trying to charm into some firsts.

A dozen or so feed sack handovers later, Chris collapsed onto the feed bags, now stacked three deep in the truck bed. “We’re gonna die out here. Chestnut Ridge was hot and stuff, but Strangerville has no mercy. How do people live here? It’s like the surface of the sun.”

Beau was in rare form cracking jokes about his city slicker cousin and his best friend, dodging tossed handfuls of leaked feed and sprays with the water bottles masterfully.

Just as Craig leaned down to spread the next layer of feed bags, a girl with a leg and an arm in casts rounded the corner—on crutches moving relatively fluent, a flyer rolled beneath one arm. She paused at the sight of the truck, eyebrows raised at the scene: shirtless cowboys, a mini cowboy heckling them, and Jackson in full rancher mode.

She laughed at Jackson, clearly the man in charge here. “Quite the crew y’all got there.”

Jackson tipped his hat. “Mornin’, ma’am. Didn’t mean to block the road. We’ll be clear in just a few. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Oh, take yer time, don’t worry. Been there, done that. My daddy’s got a ranch himself up on the plateau. If I could, I’d help ya.”

“Oh, don’t worry yerself none, Miss. Ya can sit down on them feed sacks over there if yaw anna wait comfortably, I’ll load those last. Or one of the boys can walk ya ‘cross so ya can get on with yer day.”

She smiled gratefully and sat. “Ain’t in no hurry. Ya’ll in town from the Ridge? Saw the license plates.”

“Yeah, some errands, pickin’ up a stallion.”

“Not that pinto wreakin’ havoc over at the Dalton’s spread?”

“Yup, that one’s ours.” Beau interjected proudly, tipping his hat at the girl.

That’s when Craig and Chris rose up in sync—sweaty, breathless, hay-streaked.

The girl looked up and stopped cold.

“Holy shit,” she breathed. “Camry.”

Craig stared. Blinked. “Jo?”

She stepped closer, heart thumping behind her ribs. “I thought—are you…?”

Craig climbed down from the truck bed in one clean motion he hadn’t known he could pull off.

“Hey,” he said, voice quiet. “You’re out of the hospital. And walking.”

“Ya gotta speak up, Craig, she can’t hear ya over bein’ so shirtless … ouch Pa!” beau piped up until Jackson shoved him.

“Get back to work.”

She smiled. “New gig? This time without a barcode on yer shirt, huh?”

Craig laughed. “Yeah. I wish that part was more symbolic. Long story. Good to see you doing well. Sorry I haven’t been by but it’s been a crazy few weeks.”

Chris climbed down behind him, grabbing a rag from Jackson’s toolbox to wipe his face.

Jo looked between them, stunned. “Oh, it’s you! I have seen you at the hospital. So I didn’t imagine it! Nurse said your name is Chris. And you had a girl with you, Katie! You left me the letter. His letter.”

“Yeah, that’s Chris, he’s my cousin, and his girlfriend’s name is Cadence. But that there is Craig, not Camry and I am Beau, even though nobody asked. And this is my dad, Jackson Kershaw. We own the Kershaw Ranch in Chestnut …”

“Beau Wyatt! Nobody asked. Sorry about that, again, Ma’am. I think my boy had too much sugar today. Didn’t I tell ya to get to work?”

“But Chris and Craig are …”

“Don’t ya worry ‘bout what they do, you just worry bout yerself. Run back in the store and get everyone some waters. Here’s some money. Get.”

“Well, nice to me ya, Beau. And you as well … Jackson. I didn’t think I would see you again, Craig. That letter sounded so … final. Had me worried.”

Craig shrugged. “Long story. Hey, I am glad you are better. Some fall you took.”

“Better is relative,” Jo said. “Let’s call it mostly functional. Still hurts and nothing works as it used to. Can’t wait to get that cast off, it itches like hell.”

“Ha, that should be my middle name, ‘mostly functional’. I would have come by sooner, but … didn’t know .. well … it felt strange. Or just … weird.”

He looked at her crutches, then her face. “Not weird. So you work on a ranch?”

Jackson and Beau burst into simultaneous laughter.

“No Ma’am. They are kind enough to help a feller out. Chris is my nephew, and is combinin’ somethin’ for his medical degree with helpin’ me out and Craig is along for the ride getting’ back on his feet after rehab.”

“Jackson!” Chris shook his head at his uncle, then at Craig, who looked embarrassed, looking down at the ground.

Jo’s gaze softened. “I kinda figured it was something like that. You had that look—like you’d been through a war nobody saw.”

Craig chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. You don’t walk away from stuff like that without a limp. Mine’s just… not in the legs.”

She nodded slowly. “Mine kinda is.”

Beau reappeared, juggling water bottles like a circus act. “Got drinks! One’s for the lady. Unless yer cast arm can’t hold it—then I’ll drink yours, too.”

Jo snatched it from midair with a grunt. “I’m injured, not useless.” She managed to open her own bottle without problem.

“Point taken,” Beau said, saluting with his own bottle.

The crew settled into a brief moment of peace. Chris leaned back against the truck, Jackson adjusted his hat, and Craig found himself standing next to Jo without needing to say anything. They just existed—side by side in the dusty heat, like the world hadn’t come unstitched and stitched back together under the desert sky.

Jo took a slow sip. “So what now? You got plans?”

Craig’s mouth opened, then closed again. He glanced at the pinto, already pawing at the trailer bars like it had something to prove. “Not really. Just working, staying clean, figuring out what the future might look like now. One day at a time. Plans have a way of just not working out the way I thought for me, so I quit making them.”

“You should come up to the plateau sometime,” Jo said. “My dad is always looking for ranchhands. Maybe I could use the company.”

Craig blinked. “Yeah. Maybe.”

The moment hung.

Then Jackson clapped his hands. “Alright, break time’s over. We ain’t got the time to just stand here lookin’ purdy. Sorry Miss, but we got a tight schedule.”

Chris groaned dramatically, grabbing the last sack as if it weighed a hundred pounds. “I’m glad I am paying all that money to go to college to work myself into an early grave here.”

As everyone shifted back to task, Jo looked up at Craig and smiled—just slightly, just enough.

“I’m glad you made it out,” she said.

Craig smiled back. “Me too. Name’s Craig, by the way. Craig Douglas. Sorry, I gotta go. Good seeing you again.”

Then he turned and climbed back into the truck, dust swirling at his boots. The sun was unforgiving, but the weight in his chest wasn’t. Not anymore. Craig, shirt damp and shoulders squared, picked up the next sack and hoisted it like it weighed nothing at all.

Before disappearing into the diner, Jo paused and unrolled the flyer tucked under her arm. “We’re hosting a ranch clinic up at the plateau next week. Ridin’, horse husbandry, avoidin’ pitfalls—just some light hands-on stuff. If you feel like showing up, it’s the Calhoun Ranch. Red barn, gravel drive, and too many dogs. Can’t miss it.”

Craig took it, nodding once. “Alright. I just might, Miss Calhoun.” He winked. Why, he couldn’t say.

She tapped her crutch lightly against his boot. “Nice look, by the way. Well, I’ll let ya all get back to it, gotta be off too. Hope to see ya then, Craig Douglas.”

He laughed, low and genuine. Then she turned and disappeared, leaving a dust trail behind her and Craig still holding the flyer like a signpost until Jackson nudged him.

“Get that head outta them clouds and yer butt back to work.”