“I helped you file some paperwork. Actually, I pulled some strings to slide your paperwork under the door and then?—”
“I choose you.”
The vehicle was going straight down a two-lane highway that had been reduced to one lane, with the snow piled up on each side. Paul took one hand off the wheel. He laced it with Birdy's, and they drove in silence for a while.
Up ahead, a cabin emerged from the tangle of frost-laced trees. It was tucked deep into one of the wealthier outskirts of town. The stretch was known for private properties and generational wealth. But this place didn’t gleam with affluence.
Its once-proud bones had gone soft with time. The wood siding was faded to a silvery gray and warped in places. The porch sagged slightly to the left, its railing bowed like tired shoulders. One shutter hung loose by a single rusted hinge, clapping idly in the wind. A light puff of smoke curled from the chimney, the only sign that someone still cared enough to keep the fire burning.
It had the look of something that had been passed down but never properly maintained: still technically valuable, still part of something exclusive, but left to slowly unravel in the shadows.
Beverly and Zeke sat side by side on the sagging porch steps. Both kids' knees were drawn up, their breath fogging in the cold. Beverly’s posture was composed—shoulders squared, chin lifted. But her eyes tracked every movement like a cornered animal waiting to flinch. She was unharmed, but wariness clung to her like the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
Beside her, Zeke looked like the storm had already hit him. His hoodie hung loose off one shoulder, hands jittering between his knees. He kept bouncing his foot like he was trying to shake something off—guilt, fear, the sheer pressure of too many bad choices. His eyes darted toward the tree line and then to Beverly, landing nowhere for long. He looked young. Too young for the weight bowing his spine. Too young to be the villain. Too tired to be anything else.
As the truck rolled to a stop in front of them, Zeke stood, his posture wary but not aggressive. Birdy barely waited for the vehicle to stop before jumping out, her heels slipping slightly on the icy gravel.
“Beverly,” she called, rushing forward.
The girl rose too, smiling shakily. “I'm okay. The baby's inside, sleeping.”
Birdy wrapped Beverly in a fierce hug, holding on tightly, her heartbeat thudding against Beverly’s ear. For one moment, just one, she let herself feel the sheer relief of finding them safe. Then she pulled back, hands flying up to frame the girl’s face, scanning her from head to toe. “Are you hurt? Did he?—”
Beverly shook her head.
Birdy exhaled. Her shoulders dropped—just an inch—before her gaze snapped up to Zeke. The warmth drained from her eyes. Her hands dropped from Beverly’s shoulders as she turned. Her glare landed squarely on Zeke, sharp enough to flay skin.
“What. Were. You. Thinking?” she asked, each word cold and clipped, her voice low but laced with steel.
“I didn’t mean to make things worse,” he said, voice low and raw. “I just... nobody listens to me. They all just tell me what to do. I just wanted to talk to Beverly. I know it was stupid. I know I caused a mess. I just... I don’t know how to do better.”
Zeke scrubbed a hand through his hair, looking every bit the lost boy.
Birdy's anger faltered, uncertainty sneaking in. She didn’t want to feel anything for Zeke. She had spent the better part of her career going to war against men like him—entitled, explosive, manipulative. Men who used apologies like erasers, who wielded power like fists. She’d sat across from too many scared women with bruised arms and broken trust, women who told her that the man they once loved was “just stressed” or “didn’t mean it” or “didn’t know any better.”
And now here was Zeke, looking at her with eyes that were too old and too young all at once, shoulders drawn up like a boy bracing for punishment that had been doled out his whole life.
Her instincts screamed for her to shut him down, to draw the line and make it permanent. Because she did not want to cross to his side of the street. But she didn't have to.
Paul stepped forward, quiet and steady beside her. This—this was his lane. Redemption. Intervention. Grace.
So Birdy stepped back. Because she didn't have to save everyone. She had a partner at her side.
“I don’t wanna be with my mom,” Zeke was saying. “But she controls everything. She won’t let me work. She watches my car with GPS. Tracks my bank account. Calls if I’m five minutes late. If I leave, she cuts me off.”
“That’s abuse, Zeke,” said Paul.
The boy gave a helpless shrug, staring at the scuffed toes of his boots.
Birdy exhaled slowly, her breath puffing in the cold air. She saw him now—not as a threat, not as the enemy. As a scared kid trapped in a life too small, too tight, too suffocating. The same way Beverly had been trapped. The same way too many girls Birdy had represented had been.
Beverly wiped at her eyes. “I don’t want him to get in trouble. I just... I want him to get help. Like you helped me.”
“I can do that,” Paul assured Beverly. Then he turned back to Zeke. “But you're going to have to agree. You're going to have to meet me more than halfway.”
Zeke shifted, uncertainty flickering across his face.
“The problem isn’t you,” Paul continued. “It’s her. Your mother.”
