“I could get into impact play,” she murmurs.
“Okay, I’m hanging up now.”
“No! Don’t leave me!” she cries pitifully. “I’m already withering away without you.”
I scoff, but a smile tugs at my lips. “Can we stop talking about my boss now? I’m nervous as it is.”
“I guess.” She sighs. “Why are you nervous? You’ve been a social worker for years. You’ve dealt with some really hard shit and survived.”
“These families… they don’t have a Safe Haven like we did in the city. There aren’t any backup teams, established protocols, or fully staffed departments. It’s just a team of, like, ten at most. And sometimes, the difference between a child slipping through the cracks or finding a future is one exhausted caseworker who’s willing to show up anyway.”
A beat of silence passes before she says, “That was so hot.” She moans. “Say it again, butslower.”
I laugh, easing up a little as the fields roll by in waves of green and gold. Cows. Barns. A tractor that looks older than America. There’s even a dog lying in the middle of a dirt road.
It’s absurd.
And yet, part of me exhales at the sight of it. Something buried deep tugs loose—nostalgia wrapped in hard, beautiful memories.
It’s been a long time since I’ve spent any time in the country, but I’ve always loved it.
The quiet, and stillness. The way everything smells like grass and dirt and possibilities. Like Ms. Robin’s back porch when the sun was going down and the crickets were just starting to sing.
But, that was years ago, and since then, I’ve changed. Maybe I’m not cut out for country roads or tiny towns anymore.
“Did I fuck up, Abbs?” I swallow roughly. “What if I can’t handle this?”
“Bythis, do you mean your new job, the adventure of a lifetime, or the real reason you moved to the middle of nowhere, South Dakota?”
“All of the above,” I choke out.
Abby tuts. “This is your path, Georgia. I know it in my soul. Good things are coming.”
I don’t answer. Not right away. Because I want to believe her. I want to believe that this leap wasn’t a mistake. That trading the tight-knit, well-oiled machine of Safe Haven for Summit County was brave, not stupid.
That I didn’t ruin my life by selling most of my possessions and flying halfway across the country to start over in a tiny town, sight unseen, with nothing but a binder of questions, an autoimmune disorder, a suitcase filled with baggage, and a heart full of dreams.
Unfortunately, only time will tell.
For now, I have to get my mind right and focus on what’s right in front of me—the future of a tiny little girl who just lost her parents, and the man who’s supposed to heal her through her grief.
The click of my blinker fills the silent car at a four-way stop, but no one’s around, so I grab the file and scan it again.
Aurora Grace Vernal.
Eight months old, and she’s already lost everyone who’s ever loved her. She was in a car accident with her parents a week ago. Her mom and dad were pronounced dead at the scene, and Aurora is now in the pediatric intensive care unit at the only hospital in Summit County—Rydell General—over an hour away.
I haven’t had time to ascertain the extent of her injuries, but Ethel noted she’s recovering well.
The rest of the file’s pretty much blank. The number for a probate attorney who filed the parents’ will, and the letter of intent stating the guardian. But the attorney is on vacation, so there’s no copy of the letter yet, just the guardian's name, age, and a rural address.
Kade William Archer. Thirty-One.
Nothing else. That’s all I have to go by. That, and my boss’s order to evaluate the guardian and his home and inform him of the mediation set one week from today.
For all I know, Ethel will be back by then, and I’ll be off the case, but that doesn’t take away the weight of my job today.
“Are you alright?” Abby asks, as if she can tell I’m spiraling from hundreds of miles away. “Do you need me to send you a picture of my boobs?”
