I folded it back slowly. Dad hadn’t just trusted me. He’d prepared me for exactly what Megan was trying to do.
By evening, Jack returned carrying an old army cot.
“Thought you might want something better than that couch.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Feels like I’m back in a forward operating base.”
He grinned.
“Difference is, here, you’ve got choice. You get to build instead of just survive.”
As night fell, I cooked pasta on the stove and ate with the window open, listening to the steady lap of the lake. My body ached from scrubbing, painting, lifting, but it was a good ache, the kind that came from fighting for something real.
After dinner, I sat down with my laptop and began drafting a proposal for the foundation. Simple bullet points: land use, community support, funding options. I wasn’t sure how far I’d get, but writing it down made it tangible.
