𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞

⚠︎ WARNING — the middle of this chapter has a (very) brief description of Shauna's self-induced abortion attempt. Look for the warning sign (⚠︎) if you would like to skip it, look for the symbol again. ⚠︎

[ ₁₉₉₆! ]

Natalie climbed the ladder to the attic slowly, her fingers wrapping tight around each rung. The wood creaked beneath her feet—loud, deliberate, too sharp in the hush of early morning. The air up top was colder than she expected. Not freezing, but stale, the kind of chill that clung to the skin and made you want to wrap your arms around yourself just to feel something warm.

Light filtered in through the broken attic window, soft and washed-out, catching on the dust motes that drifted lazily through the air. It spilled like water across the floorboards and scattered blankets, pale as bone. The room smelled faintly of wood smoke, sweat, and something faintly metallic—like dried blood that hadn't fully been scrubbed away.

She paused at the top, squinting into the dim.

There they were.

Huddled together in a makeshift nest of worn-out blankets and threadbare clothes, Annie and Shauna looked... soft. Fragile. Their faces turned toward each other in sleep, just inches apart. Shauna's hair had fallen across her cheek, and Annie's hand—barely visible under the blanket—was curled near her elbow like it had landed there by accident and never moved. Their breathing was slow and even, rising and falling in unison. For a split second, it looked like peace.

Natalie's heart dropped.

She didn't even know why, not really. But it did. It just... fell.

It was stupid. She knew it was stupid. But that didn't stop the rush of thoughts that came crashing down like a dam breaking. Had something happened? Was this just about comfort? Was Shauna the kind of girl who cried into your shoulder and then pressed her face into your neck until the sun came up?

Was Annie even hers to miss?

Natalie swallowed hard and pressed the pad of her thumb against the inside of her wrist, dragging it back and forth like she was trying to erase something. She crouched beside the heap of blankets, keeping her movements light, careful.

She reached out, fingertips brushing lightly over Annie's shoulder. "Hey," she murmured, voice low and rough-edged.

The reaction was instant. Annie jolted awake with a sharp inhale, eyes wide and glassy with sleep. Her gaze locked on Natalie, blinking hard like she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. "Nat?" she whispered, voice catching on the consonant.

Natalie nodded, a tight smile tugging at her mouth. "Yeah. Just me."

Annie sat up slowly, shoulders stiff, and the blanket slipped off one arm. Her hair was a mess—sticking out at odd angles, tangled in places from the restless night—and there was a faint red line pressed into her cheek from where she'd slept against a seam. She scrubbed a hand across her face and blinked again, slower this time.

"What's happening?" she asked, voice thick. "What time is it?"

"Early," Natalie replied, barely louder than before. She flicked a glance toward Shauna, who had stirred slightly but didn't wake. Her hand was still resting protectively over her stomach. "I just... I was wondering if you wanted to come with us. On the hunt."

Annie blinked. "Us?"

"Me, Travis, Molly." Natalie shrugged like it didn't matter, but her voice betrayed her. "I mean—I didn't really want to third-wheel the lovebirds. Figured they'd sneak off halfway through to make out behind a tree or something, and I didn't exactly feel like being left to babysit alone."

A quiet snort escaped Annie as she ran a hand through her hair. "Right. Of course."

Natalie shifted back on her heels. "No pressure," she added quickly. "Just figured I'd ask."

"No, yeah," Annie said around a yawn, stretching her arms overhead until her spine gave a soft pop. "Yeah. I'll come. Let me get ready."

Natalie gave a small nod, eyes flicking back toward Shauna one more time. Then she turned and slipped down the ladder. The creaking resumed, fainter as she descended, but she didn't look back.

Annie sat still for a moment, brushing her thumb against her lip. She could still feel the echo of Natalie's touch on her shoulder. Still see the way her eyes had scanned the room, clocked everything. That look—quick, quiet, like she hadn't meant for Annie to catch it.

She shook it off.

Gently, Annie reached over and touched Shauna's arm, fingers light but deliberate. The girl was still warm beneath the blanket, skin flushed from sleep. "Hey," she whispered, leaning in slightly. "Shauna. Wake up."

Shauna stirred slowly, her face scrunching before her eyes even opened. Her brows drew together, lips parting with a soft exhale like her body was reluctant to let go of whatever dream she'd been clinging to.

"Mm?" she murmured, eyes fluttering open.

"I'm gonna go on the hunt," Annie said quietly. "With Nat. Travis. Molly."

Shauna blinked, the words filtering through the haze of sleep. Her gaze moved to Annie's face, still shadowed in the soft blue light of morning, and then past her—toward the attic ladder, where the last traces of Natalie's presence still seemed to hum in the air. She looked back at Annie again. "Oh."

The space between them filled with silence. Annie hesitated, searching Shauna's face, then lowered her voice even further. "I won't say anything," she added. "About... you know. I promise."

Shauna stared at her for a moment. Her eyes were darker in the dim, ringed faintly with exhaustion. Still a little puffy. Still wary. She didn't speak right away, but the tension that had settled along her jaw loosened by a degree, like something in her chest had softened.

Finally, she gave a small nod. "Okay."

Annie exhaled, slow and quiet, like she'd been holding her breath the whole time. A faint smile flickered across her face—gentle, tired, but real. She gave Shauna's arm a small squeeze before slipping out from under the blanket, careful not to jostle her too much.

The cold hit her bare skin immediately, sharp and damp. Goosebumps rose along her arms and legs as she stood, wrapping her own arms around her torso for warmth. Her joints ached from the awkward way she'd slept—curled around herself, half-alert even in her dreams.

She made her way to the corner of the attic where her bag was stashed, half-hidden. There wasn't much to change into—just some shorts and an old soccer hoodie. She peeled off the borrowed pajamas and changed quickly, her movements practiced but quiet, glancing once over her shoulder to see if Shauna was still watching.

She was.

Their eyes met for a second. Shauna said nothing. Neither did Annie.

By the time Annie climbed down the ladder, the cabin had stirred more fully. The smell of smoke hung in the air from last night's fire, now dying to embers. Natalie stood near the door with Travis and Molly, both of whom were already geared up—jackets, shoes, bags slung over their shoulders.

Molly's eyes widened the second she spotted Annie.

"Oh my God," she gasped, stepping forward dramatically with arms flung wide. "She survived the attic!"

Annie let out a surprised laugh as Molly pulled her into a tight, theatrical hug. "Barely."

Travis offered her a quiet smile and nodded once. "Good to have another set of eyes."

Annie returned the gesture, more quietly. "Thanks."

Natalie said nothing at first. She adjusted the strap on her bag and rocked back on her heels slightly. But when Annie looked at her—really looked—there was something different in her face. Not softness, exactly. But something warmer than the air. A flicker of something unspoken. Maybe relief. Maybe something closer to hope.

"Let's go," Travis said, grabbing the rifle and stepping out into the light.

Molly shot Annie a sly little grin before following, raising her eyebrows as she glanced pointedly at Natalie. Annie rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched with a reluctant smile.

Natalie lingered for a beat longer.

As Annie passed by her, their shoulders brushed—just barely. But Natalie turned slightly, as if she might've stayed behind if Annie had asked her to.

Neither of them said a word.

And then the door shut behind them, and the cold morning swallowed them whole—four kids vanishing into the woods, chasing something half-real through the silence.

‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

The forest stretched out in every direction, vast and unknowable, a tangle of trees and underbrush that seemed to go on forever. The morning sun filtered through the canopy in fractured shafts of pale gold, cutting the shadows into long, jagged ribbons. A soft dew clung to every blade of grass and curling fern, dampening the edges of the world, while fallen leaves crackled faintly beneath their feet.

They'd been walking for just over an hour, long enough that the silence had grown comfortable. Long enough for the air to shift.

At some point, without saying much, the group's pace had changed—Travis drifting a few steps ahead, his jaw set, scanning the treeline like something might lurch out at any moment. Molly moved with him, her stride steady as her shoes left prints behind in the uneven earth. Behind them, Annie and Natalie had slowed, letting the space widen until the two halves of their group moved like separate currents in the same quiet stream.

Eventually, they reached a natural overpass, a rise of land where the earth sloped gently downward toward a nest of trees below.

"Split up?" Natalie asked, tipping her chin toward Travis, her arms crossing instinctively. "You can take the gun. We'll just look."

Travis glanced back at them, the early light catching the side of his face. He squinted against the glare. "There's a slope up ahead," he said. "I think the crash site's just past it."

Natalie gave a curt nod. "We'll loop around. Meet you back here in an hour?"

Travis didn't argue. He nodded again—short, practical—and turned. Molly didn't hesitate. She fell into step beside him without looking back, her ponytail swinging slightly as she matched his pace.

Annie watched them go for a moment, then turned to Natalie.

And just like that, they were alone.

For a while, the silence between Travis and Molly was companionable. The kind of quiet that settled easily between two people who had already lived through hell and didn't need to fill the space with noise. Branches scraped faintly against their sleeves as they pushed forward, the scent of pine and distant smoke still lingering in the cool morning air.

They crested the ridge together, boots crunching against stone and soil, and there it was—just beyond a thicket of brittle shrubs and flattened grass.

The wreckage.

The fuselage was split wide open like a ribcage, its jagged metal edges rusted and raw. Ash-blackened branches framed the clearing like a warning, and the earth still bore scars—burned patches of moss, splintered bark, twisted fragments of the plane scattered like bones.

Molly froze. Her breath hitched in her throat.

"It looks worse than I remember," she murmured, voice catching.

Travis didn't respond immediately. His eyes swept across the wreckage, slow and deliberate, like he was cataloging every piece of it. Every memory. The outline of the door.

He didn't look at her. Not at first.

But Molly saw it anyway—the way his shoulders tensed, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. She crossed her arms over her chest, but not from the cold. Her eyes scanned the site, moving fast and sharp, trying not to get stuck in any one place too long.

The screaming came back first. Then the heat. The pain. The sharp, blinding jolt when her shoulder hit the door on impact, like her body was being torn sideways through time.

Travis exhaled slowly, turning to face her. "You okay?"

"I just..." Molly blinked hard, her arms tightening around herself. "I thought I was over this part."

He glanced at her, finally. "I don't think we'll ever get over it."

She let out a soft, humorless laugh. "God, that's depressing."

He shrugged, but the motion was stiff. "It's true."

Molly studied him for a second—really studied him. The rigid line of his back. The way his jaw clenched like it hurt to breathe. The way his eyes didn't quite focus on the present, like he was still standing in the burning cabin of the plane, like part of him hadn't left that day.

"Hey," she said softly, stepping closer. Her voice didn't push. It folded into the silence. "I'm not trying to make it worse."

He turned slightly at the sound of her voice, his expression unreadable.

"I just..." she hesitated. "I don't think we had a chance to talk about it. Any of it."

"There's nothing to say," he said after a beat.

Molly tilted her head, eyes narrowing gently. "That's bullshit."

He didn't argue. But he didn't move either.

"You don't have to act like it didn't happen," she added, quieter now. "You don't have to hold it all in."

He looked down, jaw flexing. "If I let it out," he said slowly, "I don't know what happens after that."

Molly didn't answer right away. Her breath caught slightly in her throat, and she reached out—not with force, just enough. She let her fingers brush his, then took his hand fully. Her palm was warm. Steady.

He didn't pull away.

Their fingers laced together in the quiet. Not like something romantic. Not exactly. But something necessary. Something human.

Travis met her gaze again, and for a second, there was something heavy between them. Heavier than flirtation. Deeper than the kind of affection you could name. Just two people holding each other up, because no one else knew what it was like to walk away from that wreckage with someone else's voice still screaming in their head.

And then—slowly, almost like he was afraid to break whatever was holding them together—Travis leaned in. His head tilted, tentative. Testing. He waited half a breath longer than necessary.

Molly didn't move. She didn't close the distance—but she didn't stop him, either.

When his lips brushed hers, it was featherlight. A question more than a kiss.

She kissed him back.

Her fingers curled into the front of his jacket, anchoring them both. He lifted a hand to her cheek, calloused thumb brushing the curve of her jaw as the kiss deepened, less careful now. His other hand slid down to her waist, lingering there as if to memorize the shape of her.

It didn't stay soft for long.

They broke apart only to breathe, then found each other again with something hungrier, something raw. Her hands tangled in his hair, his mouth tracing the corner of hers. Then lower.

His hand slipped under her shirt—just his fingertips. Rough and cold against the curve of her back.

She shivered.

But she didn't stop.

They stumbled backward through the wreckage, tangled in breath and hands and something too big for either of them to name. Their lips stayed locked, warm and urgent, the kiss more desperate than delicate. It was instinct—like they were trying to escape everything else.

Travis's fingers curled around her waist, anchoring her as her back bumped gently into a rusted panel. She barely noticed. All she felt was the heat of his mouth, the tension in his grip, the way his breath caught when she bit lightly at his lower lip.

Somewhere in the haze of it, he shifted—his palm rising to her shoulder, steady but hesitant, a question more than a command. Molly let him, knees bending slightly as they both sank toward the dirt-streaked floor of the fuselage, the chill of it grounding. Her hands slid up his chest, bunching in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him down with her.

But as she shifted, her body angling to meet him, her head knocked hard against something sharp and rusted. The edge of a broken tray table, jagged like a piece of glass.

"Shit!" Molly hissed, flinching up, her whole body recoiling. Her hand flew to the back of her head, palm pressing into the sudden sting.

Travis froze, jerking back as if he'd been the one cut. "Are you okay?" His voice was thin, already braced for the worst.

She winced, fingers gently patting through her hair. No blood. Just a rising lump and a wave of embarrassment. "Yeah," she muttered. "Just... sharp. It's fine."

But Travis had already taken a step back, his eyes wide with a kind of quiet panic. He ran a hand through his hair, the strands sticking up like he'd been shocked. His cheeks flushed hard and uneven. Not just embarrassment—something worse. Shame blooming behind his eyes like a bruise.

He turned away, chest rising in a shaky breath. "I'm obviously just gonna keep screwing this up," he muttered, his voice thick. "So whatever. Maybe we should just head back. Find Annie and Nat."

"Travis—" Molly started, but he sighed, his head leaning against the wall of the plane.

Molly stayed still for a second, blinking up at the rusted hulk of the plane, her scalp still throbbing dully. "You act like this is supposed to be easy," she said quietly. "Like there's a right way to do any of this. But we're in the middle of the goddamn woods, sitting in the wreckage of a plane crash that we miraculously survived, trying to figure out how to stay human."

He didn't say anything.

"You're not screwing up," she continued. "You're just... figuring things out. We both are."

There was a long pause. Then, finally—barely above a whisper—Travis said, "I don't know how."

She turned her head, studying his profile. The hard line of his jaw. The twitch in his brow. "Okay," she said. "So what?"

He blinked at her.

"I don't expect you to know how," she said. "I don't need you to pull some perfect movie move out of nowhere."

"I don't?" he asked, like he genuinely hadn't considered that might be true. That she didn't expect him to be someone else entirely.

Molly gave a crooked smile. Not flirtatious—just real. "Trav, I've spent most of my life dealing with people who lied with every breath they took. Guys who only wanted one thing. Adults who said they'd show up and never did. If I wanted some flawless, smooth-talking fantasy, I'd still be pretending I didn't see through them."

He looked at her for a long time, eyes searching her face like he was seeing it for the first time—really seeing it. This girl who kissed like she meant it. Who touched him without flinching. Who didn't expect him to be better than he was.

She didn't look away.

"You're not gonna break me," she said. "And you're not gonna ruin this."

Something in his chest cracked open. He exhaled. Shoulders dropped a little. His hands uncurled at his sides.

The silence stretched—but this time, it wasn't awkward. It was heavy in a different way. Softer. Calmer.

Then she grinned, wry and biting. "Besides, if I get laid, I'd rather not have a piece of airplane furniture embedded in my skull."

That pulled a laugh out of him—real, full-bodied, a low rumble that cracked through the tension like sunlight through fog. "Noted."

She grinned wider, crawling forward, catching him by the collar like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And this time, the kiss was slower. Surer. No panic, no rush. Just warmth.

His hands slid to her waist, anchoring there. Hers rose to his neck, her fingers threading into his hair, holding him steady as if the earth might tilt again at any moment.

They sank into it, breathing each other in like it might be the only steady thing left.

And then—

A rustle.

Then—footsteps. Laughter. Close. Too close.

Travis froze like he'd been shot. His breath caught, lips still parted from the kiss, eyes snapping toward the trees. "Shit."

Molly blinked, still half-dazed. Her back was pressed against the metal siding of the fuselage, her heart thudding like it was trying to catch up to what they'd just been doing. Her hair was mussed. Her shirt was crooked. She didn't move.

Travis, on the other hand, was already scrambling to create space—backing away, fingers fumbling to tug his shirt down over his waistband. He raked a hand through his hair, cheeks going bright with panic-colored flush.

"Relax," Molly said under her breath, amusement bleeding through her exasperation. She shifted her weight, leaning more heavily against the edge of the fuselage, arms crossing slowly over her chest. Her voice was teasing, but her grin was soft. "God forbid they know we weren't just off playing cards."

He didn't answer—too busy adjusting his shirt, like that was going to erase the fact that his hands had just been under her shirt.

Molly straightened, brushing the pine needles from her back and tugging her jeans into place. Then, with casual flair, she stepped closer and held out a hand. "Come on, Romeo. Don't freak out."

He hesitated, then took her hand—eyes still darting toward the sound of voices filtering through the trees.

She helped him steady, let her fingers linger in his for a second too long. "Let 'em talk," she said, smirking faintly. "At least we're not gonna die virgins."

That stopped him cold.

He blinked at her, lips parting like he was about to say something, then didn't.

"Actually..."

His voice was quiet. Uneven.

She tilted her head, her expression dimming slightly. "What?"

Travis dropped her hand. Scratched the back of his neck. His gaze dropped to the forest floor, where damp leaves glinted faintly in the morning light. "I mean—yeah. I haven't exactly... you know."

"Oh." Molly blinked. "I wasn't trying to—I didn't mean it like—"

"It's fine," he said quickly, cutting her off. "Just... forget I said anything."

But the way he said it—too fast, too defensive—told her it wasn't fine at all.

Silence fell between them, thick and uncomfortable in a way that hadn't existed a moment ago. The kind of silence that hummed in your ears. That made you feel too big for your own skin.

Molly could've cracked a joke. Deflected. But she didn't.

Because something in the way he stood there—shoulders tense, hands jammed into his pockets like he was bracing for impact—made her pause. It wasn't just embarrassment. It was shameful...shyness.

"Hey!" Annie's voice rang out, bright and clueless, distracting the Serrano girl. "Where have you guys been?"

Travis went pale. Like—visibly. His jaw clenched as he turned toward the sound, shoulders hitching higher with every second. Molly didn't move, but her eyebrows lifted.

Oh boy.

Then Natalie appeared—beside Annie, eyes sweeping the clearing like a hawk—and took one look at them. At Travis's pink face. At Molly's messy hair. At the weird space between them filled with static.

And she lost it.

She doubled over, laughter tearing out of her like a bark, hands on her knees. "Are you fucking serious?" she gasped. "Oh my god. Please don't tell me—"

"Jesus Christ," Travis muttered under his breath, scrubbing both hands down his face like he could erase the moment.

Molly fought not to laugh. Her face was still flushed, but she rolled her eyes, biting the inside of her cheek to stay composed.

Annie, of course, stood blinking between them like a golden retriever. "Wait... what's going on? Did I miss something?"

Natalie opened her mouth to say something, but Travis cut her off.

Can we not?"

Molly caught his eye and mouthed sorry, but the smirk tugging at the edge of her mouth made it clear she wasn't all that sorry.

Annie, apparently deciding she didn't care to catch up, just shrugged. "Okay. Well... it's getting late."

Travis finally exhaled. "Yeah. We should head back."

No one argued.

They gathered what little gear they'd brought, the buzz of awkwardness still hanging in the air like humidity. Annie, as usual, was unbothered—she looped her arm through Molly's like nothing was different, chatting idly about mushrooms and squirrel tracks.

Maybe, to her, it wasn't different.

But Molly glanced back once as they walked, just for a second.

Travis was a few steps behind. Hands shoved in his pockets. Head down.

Still flushed.

Still quiet.

Still feeling everything way too loud and too big.

Molly didn't say anything.

Not yet.

But she would.

She always did.

By the time they neared the cabin, the sun was low and golden, stretching shadows long across the clearing. The trees loomed tall and dark at their backs, but the light cast everything in honey, softening the rough edges of the world. Dirt crunched beneath their shoes as they crossed the worn path toward the cabin.

Up ahead, Annie and Natalie walked side by side, their voices low, weaving into the quiet like they'd been talking the whole time.

Behind them, Molly and Travis followed at a quieter clip. They didn't speak. Didn't need to. The air between them was warmer now, thicker with the heat of things still unsaid.

Their hands brushed once. Then again.

Molly looked up at him, smiling softly.

And he reached out—gently, hesitantly—and threaded his fingers through hers. Their palms met, skin warm despite the cool breeze slipping through the trees. He didn't say anything. Just squeezed lightly, like a promise. Not a flashy one. But real.

They didn't even notice the others until the whistles started.

"Travis and Molly," Laura Lee sang, perched on a tree stump by the fire pit, her voice chiming through the air like a Sunday school jingle, "sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

Molly groaned audibly, yanking her hand back with a sharp roll of her eyes, but she couldn't help the laugh that escaped her throat. Travis blinked, startled, like he'd forgotten other people existed.

"I think they were doing a bit more than kissing," Lottie added from beside the blonde, grinning.

Laughter broke like a wave—sudden and merciless. Van was doubled over near the cabin, wheezing. Even Akilah let out a low snort from where she sat plucking pine needles off her socks.

"What exactly were you guys hunting for out there, anyway?" Mari called from the porch railing, one eyebrow raised and mischief practically radiating off her.

Van leaned in, loud enough to make sure everyone heard. "I heard it's beaver season."

Molly let out a bark of laughter, pink blooming on her cheeks. She shook her head, trying to play it off. "You guys are assholes," she said, grinning crookedly, her voice louder than she meant it to be.

But then—

"Is this why we don't have any food?"

The voice cut through the noise like a blade.

Everything stopped.

Jackie stood near the cabin door, arms crossed tightly across her chest, one shoulder resting against a splintered beam. Her face was calm—too calm. Her eyes, though, were hard.

All heads turned.

"You two," she said flatly, chin tipping toward Molly and Annie, who stood just off to the side. "You're distracting them."

The laughter was gone now. Van's grin faltered. Laura Lee glanced at Annie, then looked down.

Annie's brows furrowed, confused. "What—"

But Molly already knew the tone. Her back straightened.

Jackie took a step forward, slow and deliberate. "Because Serrano's out here running for mayor of pound town," she snapped, her voice loud and ugly. She gestured toward Molly like she was filth, some rotten thing left to fester.

Molly's face went stone-still. She stepped forward, fists balled tight at her sides. "You want to say that again?"

Jackie didn't flinch.

"Don't act shocked," she said. "You've been crawling all over him since day one."

Then her gaze flicked—quick as a switchblade—to Natalie.

"I mean... look at your little group," she added, her voice suddenly syrupy, mocking. "Nat's always down for a good time, isn't she?"

Natalie didn't respond. Didn't move. But the way her jaw clenched, the way her fingers curled around the strap of her bag—it was like something cracked behind her eyes.

Jackie's smirk widened.

Then she turned back to Molly, her voice dropping just enough to make the next words land heavy.

"And you? You've been on your back longer than we've been out here."

A breath hitched—no one knew whose. Lottie's mouth parted. Mari looked like she might actually say something, but didn't.

Jackie kept going.

And then—her gaze slid to Annie.

"You," she said, almost with pity. "You're just too dumb to realize why she keeps you around. Or maybe you're scared to admit it."

The words hit like a slap.

Natalie didn't move. But something in her expression cracked open. Her shoulders pulled tight, chin lifted—like she was waiting for the blow to land. Her eyes didn't meet Annie's. Wouldn't.

Annie's heart thudded in her chest. Her breath snagged, sharp in her throat. Her arms crossed instinctively over her middle. Her face flushed—bright red, too fast, too warm. She blinked hard, trying to make sense of it. Trying to hold onto some thread of solid ground. But her thoughts turned inward, spiraling, too fast to catch. Why she keeps you around. Scared to admit it.

Somewhere nearby, Laura Lee stood. Her eyes darted between the girls, lips parted like she wanted to say something.

But Natalie was the one who moved.

She stepped forward with a sharp exhale, her voice low and vibrating with restrained rage.

"Well," she seethed, "we can't magically conjure a deer, Jackie." She kept walking—close, too close—until the air between them grew taut and humming. "But if you keep talking shit, I'll find something to shoot."

The threat wasn't a joke. It wasn't loud.

But it landed.

Everyone tensed.

Jackie descended the cabin steps like she owned the dirt beneath them, arms crossed tightly across her chest, shoulders drawn back with purpose. Her was locked on Natalie like a predator zeroing in. "Oh wow," she sneered, her voice razor-sharp. "You're so tough." Her shoes crunched the dry grass as she stepped closer, stopping just short of Natalie's space. "I'm not scared of you, burnout."

Natalie didn't move. Her fists clenched at her sides, jaw grinding tight enough to ache.

Then Jackie leaned in—just a breath closer. Close enough for her voice to drop, a venom-laced whisper made for Natalie alone.

"So... when are you gonna tell her?"

Natalie flinched, just barely, but it was enough. Her body went stiff, lips parting in a flash of breath like she'd been punched. Her eyes darted—reflexively—toward Annie.

Then she stepped forward, full of fire, her voice cracking through the clearing.

"You're jealous," she snapped, loud now, shoulders squaring. "'Cause you're an uptight, prudish little bitch."

Her hands shot up, ready to shove, to make it physical—but before she could make contact, a body wedged between them.

"Hey!" Taissa's voice cracked like a whip across the clearing as she shoved herself between them. "Knock it off!" she barked. "Both of you."

Jackie's face twisted into something ugly—her mouth opening like she had more to say—but she caught herself. Or maybe she just realized she'd already dropped the bomb and didn't need to stick around for the fallout. She spun on her heel and stalked back to the cabin, the door creaking violently behind her before slamming shut.

The clearing fell into silence. The kind that doesn't settle—just lingers, heavy and stifling, like the air before a storm.

Natalie exhaled sharply. Her eyes darted sideways—looking for Annie.

But Annie was already walking away.

Her head was down, arms folded tight across her chest. Her movements were stiff, hurried—like she didn't want anyone to call her back. Like she needed to get away before someone saw her face.

Before someone saw her cry.

Natalie opened her mouth—but didn't speak.

Misty trotted after her, bright-eyed and beaming like she hadn't heard a single word.

"I know how you feel, Annie," she said, falling into step beside her. She leaned in close, her voice bright with confidence. "I know how you feel, Annie. I have a secret boyfriend."

Annie barely turned. "Right," she muttered, voice flat, still walking. Her arms hugged her sides like armor.

Misty giggled, undeterred. "Shhh. Don't tell anyone," she whispered like it was a joke they shared. Then she skipped off, humming, vanishing into the cabin like nothing had happened.

Annie stopped just short of the trees, pressed her fingers to her temples, and took one slow breath. Her chest ached. Her head pounded.

Then she disappeared into the woods.

‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

Annie moved blindly through the trees, her feet stumbling over roots and uneven ground she couldn't see for the haze behind her eyes. One arm stayed wrapped tight around her stomach, like she could hold something in—her breath, her shame, the burn beneath her ribs. The other hand pressed hard against her temple, fingers digging in, as if pressure might quiet the pounding in her skull.

Her head throbbed like something was trying to claw its way out from the inside, a wild, scraping thing just behind her eyes. Each heartbeat echoed in her ears, fast and hot, like the forest was pulsing with it.

Jackie's words looped again and again, seared into her memory like the afterimage of a flash.
You're just too dumb to realize why she keeps you around.
Or maybe you're scared to admit it.

Annie's breath hitched. She blinked, hard, but her vision still shimmered at the edges. Her cheeks still burned like she'd been slapped, the heat of humiliation mixing with something colder—shame. Fear.

Natalie's voice haunted the space Jackie had torn open. That low rasp, edged in fury. Fierce. Protective. The kind of voice that didn't care who heard it.

God. Natalie.

Annie didn't know what she wanted more— to run back to her, or to run until she disappeared into the trees forever. She couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Everything she'd shoved down for months—every flicker of confusion, every spark she'd told herself to ignore—was rising fast and sharp, burning blister-hot beneath her skin.

Why would Jackie say that?
Why would she—
Why would she know?

Then—

Click.

Annie stopped short, frozen in place. Her breath caught, lodged halfway up her throat.

Another sound. Softer this time. A deliberate click—metal on metal, close enough that the air around her shifted.

She didn't speak. Didn't call out. Just stood still and listened.

Wind whispered through the trees, rustling the canopy. Her heartbeat filled the silence, frantic and stuttering. She took a step forward, slow and cautious, boots cracking the half-frozen leaves underfoot. Another step. Then another.

The clicking stopped.

She crouched low, steadying herself against a thin-limbed bush, fingers curling around the brittle branches. She leaned forward, moving the leaves aside with slow, careful precision.

And there—just beyond the treeline, in a dip of grass barely touched by the sun—was Shauna.

⚠︎

Kneeling on a folded blanket, her hair pulled into a messy knot at the base of her neck. She was alone, hunched forward with her arms close to her body, a small metal wire coiled in one hand. The other held a lighter, flame flickering in the breeze. Her gaze was fixed on the fire, her expression hollow but focused, like she was bracing herself to do something she hadn't yet found the courage to commit to.

The breath caught in Annie's chest. It felt fragile in her lungs.

"...Shauna?"

Neither of them moved.

Shauna's head snapped up like she'd been struck.

Her mouth fell open on a sharp breath, no sound behind it. Her eyes—wide, wet, and rimmed red—flicked wildly, as if she'd just been woken from a nightmare. For a second, she looked almost unrecognizable. Stripped down. Raw. The flicker in her gaze wasn't defiance or anger—it was something thinner, more fragile. A tremor ran through her hand, the wire she clutched trembling with it, catching the pale light like it meant to slice the air itself.

She looked small.

Not just physically, but in that terrifying way people can shrink when the world gets too big around them. She looked like a kid caught doing something. Something dangerous she hadn't really thought through. Something she didn't even know how to stop.

Her lips parted again like she was going to speak, but the words didn't come.

Annie lurched forward without thinking. Her feet tangled in the low brush, bare branches dragging against her legs and clawing at her sleeves as she stumbled into the clearing. She nearly tripped over a root, caught herself, kept going.

"Shauna—" Her voice cracked as it left her throat. "What are you...?"

Shauna didn't respond. She didn't even lift her head.

She just stared down at the wire in her lap, one end looped loosely, the other sharp and glinting in the light of the small flame guttering in the dirt beside her. Her fingers twitched around it, like she was winding herself up just to stay still.

"I can't have this baby," she said.

Quiet. Flat. Not a confession—an execution.

The words hit harder than a slap. Annie stopped short, heart stuttering in her chest.

And then it clicked.

The blanket spread on the ground. The lighter. The wire. The shaking in her shoulders. Shauna wasn't waiting for someone. She wasn't trying to build anything.

She was going to do it.

Alone.

Annie's lungs clenched. It felt like someone had knocked the air out of her body.

"You were gonna..." Her voice came out too fast, too sharp. "You were gonna do this by yourself?"

Shauna blinked. Her lips twitched, trying for a sound, a word, anything. But all she managed was, "I—"

"You can't." Annie stepped forward, her hand half-reaching before pulling back. "Shauna, you can't. Not like this."

Shauna's head turned slowly. Her gaze lifted, meeting Annie's for the first time.

Her eyes were bloodshot, glassy, ringed in exhaustion. Like the weight of it all had been quietly crushing her ribcage from the inside out. Her mouth trembled, her voice breaking on the words.

"I don't have a choice."

That did it.

Annie felt something twist inside her. Not a clean twist either—a slow, wrenching pull like a rope tightening too fast, too tight.

Her spine went rigid. Her fingers curled into her palms until her nails dug into skin.

This was wrong.

The wire. The flicker of flame. The look in Shauna's eyes—like hope had already given up on her. Everything about this was wrong.

Or at least... that's what she was supposed to believe.

That's what the Church would've said. Not just wrong. Sinful.

A mortal offense.

A break from grace.

An offense against life. Against God.

At least, that was what she'd been taught. What she'd heard in cold pews and quiet classrooms and Sunday sermons where the air always smelled like dust and wax.

But the thing was—none of those voices were here.

Not the Church. Not the hymns. Not the rules. Not the quiet pressure of her mother's hand on her shoulder or the pitying tilt of a Sunday school teacher's head.

Just this.

A girl sitting in the dirt with a piece of hot wire in her hand, looking like a ghost of herself. A girl unraveling from the inside out. A girl who'd been carrying something no one else had dared to ask about. A girl who was hurting.

Annie's knees gave out. She dropped down beside her, barely feeling the sting as cold earth soaked through her jeans.

Shauna didn't look at her. Her whole body was pulled inward—elbows tight, shoulders hunched, hair falling over her face. Her lips moved like she was talking to herself, or praying, but nothing came out. Her face was streaked—tears, sweat, maybe both. And her hands...

God, her hands were shaking so hard she could barely keep hold of the wire.

She looked like a kid.

Because that's what they were.

Just kids.

Kids pretending they knew what the hell they were doing. Kids trying to survive with no tools, no safety net. Kids trying to build something out of wreckage with nothing but raw nerves and blind guesses. Kids who'd never been taught how to truly grieve.

Annie swallowed hard, her throat hot and raw. Her voice came out low.

"You can't do this alone," she said. "You—" Her voice broke, and she shook her head. "I'll help you. Okay?"

Shauna blinked, slowly, as if waking up again. "What?"

"I said I'll help you," Annie repeated, her voice steadier now despite the shaking in her chest. "You're not alone."

Her eyes burned. But she didn't look away.

She felt it rising in her like floodwater—something sharp, aching, and unfamiliar. Not just guilt. Not just fear. But a kind of defiance she didn't know she was capable of. Like she was pulling away from everything she'd been taught, everything she'd memorized and believed and clung to. Not because it was easy—but because it no longer fit.

She shouldn't be doing this.

She knew that. Somewhere deep, buried in the center of her chest, the catechism still echoed. The rules still held their shape. The fear of what this meant. Of what it said about her.

But none of that was here now.

Only Shauna.

Annie's heart thundered like a drumbeat beneath her ribs, every thud a little too hard, a little too fast. Her chest felt too tight, like there wasn't enough space in her body for what she was feeling — panic and conviction knotted together like wire beneath her skin.

She didn't know what this would mean for her later.

If she'd have to beg forgiveness on her knees.

If she'd ever be able to look her mother in the eye again.

If a crucifix would feel like comfort or punishment the next time she saw one.

But none of that mattered now.

Because Shauna was in front of her — eyes shining, shoulders shaking, the image of someone unraveling — and she looked like she was drowning.

And Annie...

God help her.

She cared.

More than she was supposed to. More than was safe.

"I'll help you," she whispered, voice breaking on the words. "If... if you'll let me. But I can't let you do it alone. You'll get hurt."

Shauna looked at her.

Really looked.

Not through her, not past her — at her. Her eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, skin pale beneath the smudges of dirt and tears. Her whole body trembled like a pulled wire, tight and close to snapping.

"...With me?" she asked, so soft it barely counted as sound.

Annie nodded.

There was a beat of silence — long, hollow, terrible — and then Shauna gave a single, fragile word.

"Okay."

And Annie did the worst thing.

The thing she was never, ever supposed to do.

The thing she would never forgive herself for.

She reached out and took the wire from Shauna's hands.

It felt too light. Too warm from Shauna's touch. Something about the shape of it — the way it coiled loosely in her palm — made her stomach pitch like she was about to be sick. But her fingers closed around it anyway.

Everything after that felt like moving underwater. Slow, disjointed, unreal. A dream tilting toward nightmare, where her body didn't quite belong to her anymore and her thoughts couldn't catch up to her hands.

But still — she didn't let go.

Shauna let out a long breath, trembling as she eased herself back onto the blanket. Her jaw clenched tight, fists curling against the earth on either side of her. Her chest rose and fell in fast, shallow bursts. She didn't shut her eyes. She couldn't. They stayed open, glassy, locked on the sky above them like she was trying to fix herself to something solid.

She was trying to be brave. Annie could see that. Trying not to cry. Trying not to fall apart.

Annie knelt down beside her, knees sinking into the cold dirt, hands hovering in the air like they didn't know where to go. She looked at Shauna — really looked at her — and waited.

Shauna gave the faintest nod.

Barely even that.

Annie began.

Her hand moved — clumsy, shaking — and as soon as the wire met skin, Shauna gasped.

A sharp, wet sound — like pain and fear tangled into one.

Annie froze. Her own breath hitched, and her vision went blurry. "I— I'm sorry," she whispered, already crying. "I'm so sorry."

Shauna winced, chest heaving. "Keep going," she choked. "You have to keep going."

Annie wanted to stop. Every instinct screamed at her to stop. But she forced herself forward, her grip like ice, her whole body shaking so violently it was a wonder she could hold the wire at all. Shauna groaned low in her throat, the sound raw, animal. She slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle it — but Annie could still feel it. Could still hear it. It burned behind her ribs.

Her arms shook harder. Her fingers trembled. She couldn't see through the tears in her eyes, but she didn't stop.

Not until the scream.

It wasn't a scream, not really — not loud. But it was sharp. Real. A panicked cry torn from Shauna's chest, wild and hoarse and terrified.

"Stop, stop! Take it out, take it out!"

Her voice cracked open on the words, choked by tears, by breath she couldn't catch.

Annie yanked her hands back like she'd been burned. The wire hit the ground with a soft, ugly thud, and Shauna lurched forward, sobbing, arms wrapping around Annie.

⚠︎

"I can't do it," she cried. "I can't— I can't do it. I don't want to die," Shauna sobbed, voice muffled against Annie's shoulder.

Annie's throat locked. Her eyes blurred again, and this time, she didn't fight the tears. They rolled down her cheeks, hot and silent, her face buried in Shauna's hair. Her heart beat like it wanted out of her chest.

She held her tighter.

Tighter.

She didn't say anything — because what was there to say?

She'd crossed a line. No, she'd leapt over it. Every rule, every sacred vow, every quiet lesson whispered in her ear since she was a child — she'd broken all of it.

This was supposed to be unforgivable.

And yet...

She would've done it again.

Because if she was willing to go this far — if she could break something so sacred, so foundational for someone she cared about — then maybe those rules didn't work anymore.

Not here.

Not in the woods.

Not in a place where everything felt so raw, so loud, and so real.

Maybe right and wrong weren't fixed. Maybe they never had been.

And maybe forgiveness — true forgiveness — was never about whether you crossed the line.

Maybe it was about why.

Maybe it was about who you crossed it for.

She'd always thought love was supposed to be clean. That it was supposed to be holy and good and come with rules that made it easy to follow. But this wasn't easy. This was messy and desperate and terrifying.

This was real.

So no, she didn't know if she could ever make peace with what she'd done. Or what she was about to do.

But she did know she couldn't stand there and do nothing.

Not when it was someone she cared about.

Not when it was someone she loved.

And if that was unforgivable...

Then maybe she didn't believe in that kind of forgiveness anymore.

She couldn't.

‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

By the time Annie reached the edge of the clearing, Shauna had already vanished into the cabin. The wooden door swung shut behind her with a soft, final click — a sound that felt smaller than it should've, too quiet for what had just happened. Annie didn't follow. She couldn't. Shauna needed time — space to breathe, to fall apart alone.

And maybe Annie did too.

Her legs ached, her palms itched, and the copper taste in the back of her throat hadn't faded. It clung to her tongue like ash.

She lingered on the edge of the clearing, frozen beneath the looming canopy. Her breath steamed in the cooling air, shallow and uneven. The trees rustled overhead, their branches whispering secrets she couldn't quite hear.

Something about the silence felt accusatory — like the forest knew what she'd done. Like it had been watching.

And then—movement.

Annie turned, expecting more silence, more judgment, but instead found Laura Lee striding toward her with that same determination she always had, like she was praying and thinking at the same time.

And just behind her, trailing like a shadow, came Lottie. She moved slowly, dreamlike, her arms loosely at her sides, eyes wide and glassy. She wasn't looking at anything, but her gaze was fixed — like she could see something in the trees that no one else could.

Laura Lee stopped directly in front of Annie and reached out. Her hand settled on Annie's arm with a softness that didn't match the intensity in her eyes. She didn't say anything right away. Just stood there, thumb brushing gently against the fabric of Annie's arm, careful — like she knew Annie might fall apart if she was touched too hard.

Then, quietly but firmly, she said, "Come with us."

Annie blinked, unsure if she'd heard her right. "What?"

"She's ready," Laura Lee smiled. "She's decided to accept Jesus into her heart. We're going to baptize her. In the lake."

For a second, Annie couldn't breathe.

She hadn't even begun to come down from what had just happened with Shauna. Her heart was still hammering out warnings, thudding so hard it felt like it might crack her ribs. Her palms stung, not from exertion but from meaning, from the weight of what she had held. She looked down at her hands like they were foreign.

Her fingers twitched — involuntary — like they still remembered the feeling of the metal, the heat of it, and the sob in Shauna's throat.

She looked past Laura Lee to Lottie, standing a few inches away. Her hair was tangled, lips parted, eyes locked on something in the distance. She didn't look like she was part of this world anymore. She looked like she'd already gone somewhere else inside her head.

"I—I should probably—" Annie's voice caught in her throat. She didn't know what she was about to say. Just that whatever it was, it couldn't be yes. "Laura Lee, I can't. Not right now."

Her sister didn't try to convince her with scripture. She didn't quote the Bible or whisper about salvation. She just stood there, quiet. Her expression was drawn but kind. Her hand still resting lightly on Annie's sleeve, a tether rather than a command.

"Please," Laura Lee pleaded.

And Annie wanted to say no. Her mouth even formed the shape of it, the n already on her tongue. Because how could she walk into a lake like that — step into water — when her hands still felt coated in everything she couldn't take back?

She felt like a husk. Hollowed out, scraped raw, but somehow still overflowing — with guilt, with fear, with the quiet ache of a dozen words she couldn't say aloud.

"Laur, I..." she whispered, barely audible. Her throat burned.

Laura Lee didn't try to pull her. She just extended her hand — not grabbing, not urging — just offering. Her palm was small and warm, familiar in the way only a twin's could be. The same shape as Annie's. The same lines. Just... steadier.

"Lottie needs us," Laura Lee said, her voice low. "She believes in Him. And now it's our job to help her."

Annie's breath caught again, sharp and quick.

She didn't feel steady. She didn't feel clean. She didn't even feel like herself right now.

But something in her cracked. Not enough to spill — not yet — but enough for her to close her fingers around Laura Lee's hand.

And nod.

They walked in silence, the only sound the soft, uneven crunch of pine needles beneath their shoes. The trees loomed taller the farther they went, rising like dark pillars, their trunks damp and narrow, their branches laced together in a canopy that let in little light. The air had cooled, settling heavy against Annie's skin like a second shirt she couldn't shrug off. Her hands stayed tucked inside her pockets, curled into her them like she could hide from the weight of them.

They didn't feel clean. They felt used—changed.

The forest didn't feel peaceful. It felt suspended, almost reverent, like the whole landscape was holding its breath. Even the birds had quieted. Even the wind was still.

The lake appeared without warning, breaking through the trees like a secret revealed. It stretched out flat and gray, its surface unmoving, dull beneath the muted sky. There was no shimmer, no reflection—just a smear of clouded water bordered by mud and moss and stones half-swallowed by the shore.

Annie stopped at the edge of the clearing, her feet sinking slightly into the wet earth, the toes of her shoes pressing deeper with every breath.

She didn't move. Not yet. Just watched.

Laura Lee was the first to step forward, skirt bunched in her fists, sliding her shoes and socks off before she waded into the water. Her long dress clung to her legs, trailing behind her in soft ripples, catching on reeds and broken sticks. She looked smaller than usual, but also steadier—like she knew exactly what she was doing. She turned back over her shoulder, her voice carrying gently.

"We're ready."

But Annie didn't step forward. Not yet.

Her eyes drifted to Lottie, who stood barefoot at the shoreline, wrapped in one of Laura Lee's old white nightgowns. The thin cotton clung to her body and flapped in the wind, making her look half-ghost. Her hair spilled loose and tangled down her back, dark against the pale fabric. Her chin was tilted slightly up, eyes fixed not on the lake but the sky, like she was waiting for something to descend—light, voice, sign, anything.

And Annie's stomach turned.

Because this—this was what they were taught to believe in. This was salvation made visible. Repentance and rebirth, like it could be plucked out of scripture and planted here among the pines. Like if you believed hard enough, it could bloom into something that made you clean.

She remembered her own baptism—white gown, chubby arms, holy water splashed onto a crying infant who couldn't possibly understand what it meant to be saved. She remembered her Confirmation too—tight shoes, trembling knees, memorized prayers whispered more out of fear than faith. She remembered her first confession, sitting in that dark wooden booth, whispering her sins through the grate like they were secrets she could bury in the church walls.

But none of that had prepared her for this.

Because this wasn't stained glass or incense or carved pulpits.

This wasn't scripture read in hushed voices or wafer-thin pages of a Bible.

This lake wasn't just water—it was a mirror. Still and unforgiving. And in it, she saw herself trembling. Not just in reflection, but in truth. The edges of her shape seemed to flicker like they weren't sure they belonged here.

She looked back at Lottie again. She looked at the nightgown, the open eyes, the look on her face that didn't come from memory or doctrine or someone else's voice—it came from somewhere else, some thread of belief Annie didn't quite understand.

She thought of the way Lottie had stared through the trees earlier. She thought of how desperately people wanted to believe something could find them.

Save them.

Could a handful of seconds underwater—cold, breathless, shivering—really rinse off what had happened back in the woods? Could it wipe away the memory of wire in her fingers, of trembling hands? Could it undo the way guilt clung to her ribs like something rotting from the inside out?

She doubted it.

She didn't believe it. Not really.

But her feet moved anyway.

One step. Then another.

And then she was moving through the grass, through the mud, toward the edge of the lake where Lottie waited like a statue carved from some sacred dream.

Annie didn't know what she believed.

But she stepped into the water anyway.

The cold hit her like a breath she hadn't braced for. It rushed up her legs in an instant—ankles, calves, knees—sharp and immediate, like the lake was exhaling straight into her skin. Annie sucked in a breath through her teeth. The water bit at her, but not in a punishing way. It was cleaner than that. Icy, yes, but clear—like it didn't care who she was or what she'd done. As if it didn't ask questions. As if it could just take her in and carry everything else away.

It was peaceful.

She didn't go far. Just enough to feel the water circling her thighs, tugging gently at her clothes, soaking into the hem of her skirt. Her sleeves hung heavy, cold creeping up her arms. She wrapped them tighter around herself and stayed still.

And she watched.

There was something sharp sitting under her ribs. Not quite pain—more like longing. A wish so tight in her chest it ached. She wanted to believe that this might work.

That Lottie could go into the water one way and come out another.

That people could be changed—stripped clean and made new.

Maybe even her.

But belief wasn't simple anymore. Not when she'd seen what she'd seen. Not when she still felt the wire in her hands. Some things didn't rinse off.

She stood in the shallows, half-hopeful and half-hollow, and wondered what it meant to be reborn if you weren't sure if you had believed in the first place.

Laura Lee moved with care through the water, her hands lifting her skirt out of the way, her steps slow and sure like each one mattered. The lake rose around her hips in ripples. She looked calm. Steady. She turned to face Lottie, who stood barefoot at the edge, pale feet disappearing into the muck, her arms limp at her sides, her eyes turned upward as if searching the clouds for something.

The white nightgown caught at the water like a shroud as she ventured in. Her lips were slightly parted. Her hair clung to her face in damp strands. She looked almost otherworldly. Like a girl half-asleep in a dream, or like she'd already left the ground and just hadn't noticed yet.

Laura Lee smiled softly, admiring Lottie as she stood in front of her, the kind of smile Annie had seen before—at bedsides, in pews, on long drives home from Sunday school. It didn't demand anything. It just offered. Like a door gently swinging open.

She placed one hand on Lottie's shoulder and the other over her heart, fingers splayed like she was steadying something fragile. Lottie's hand came up slowly, wrapping around Laura Lee's wrist. She held on tightly. Like if she didn't, she might float away.

Annie could see it in her face—the flicker of nerves, the flicker of fear. Her breath came too fast. Her lower lip was caught in her teeth, trembling just slightly. And behind her wide eyes was something frantic and flickering. Something that didn't feel safe. Annie recognized it instantly.

That same panic had lived in her own bones just an hour ago.

Laura Lee closed her eyes. Her voice was soft, but it carried. It always did.

"Dear Heavenly Father, please accept Lottie into Your loving embrace. So that she may recognize Your Holy Spirit, be cleansed of her sins, and welcomed into the Kingdom of Heaven..."

Her voice didn't waver. It was calm, composed, full of warmth and certainty.

"...Let her know she is not defined by her choices, but by Your grace. Let her feel the warmth of Your forgiveness and the safety of Your acceptance..."

At that, her eyes flicked to Annie. Just for a moment.

"...and the safety of being fully known—and still loved."

Annie didn't flinch. But she felt the words scrape along her skin like wind over an open wound. She folded her arms tighter across her chest, curling inward. Her gaze stayed fixed on the line where the water met the mud. She didn't want to look at Laura Lee. Or Lottie. Or herself.

The words floated through the air like something distant, already fading.

She barely registered the final Amen.

Annie didn't move. Didn't react.

Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, shoulders drawn in. She wasn't looking at Laura Lee or Lottie. Her eyes were locked on the waterline, where the ripples bled into the shallows and the mud turned dark and soft.

She heard the voice, distant and slow—like it was underwater.

And the words floated right over her head.

Laura Lee frowned, focusing back to Lottie. "In Your name we pray. Amen."

"Amen," Lottie murmured, almost breathless.

"Let your faith in Him be your guiding light."

And then, Laura Lee moved again. Gentle. Steady. Her hands guided Lottie backward into the water, tilting her like a prayer in motion. Lottie leaned into it, hair fanning out around her like smoke in water. Her face was turned toward the sky, lips parted. And then she disappeared beneath the water. Ripples spread in soft rings. Silence followed.

For a beat, the lake was still.

Then—

a jolt.

Lottie thrashed beneath the surface, her arms flinging wide, water splashing violently. A muffled sound broke free, bubbles bursting up. Her whole body convulsed like something had seized her. The surface churned. Annie's heart leapt to her throat.

She didn't think. She just moved, wading further into the lake, water rising past her knees, past her thighs, cold and pulling.

Laura Lee pulled Lottie up, panic blooming across her face. "Lottie? Lottie—what is it?"

Lottie came up choking, gasping for air, hair plastered to her cheeks. Her chest rose in frantic bursts, her eyes wild and unblinking. Annie grabbed her by the elbow, fingers wrapping tight.

"Lottie?"

The dark-haired girl turned to Annie with a stare like lightning—wide, unseeing, lit from somewhere far away. "I saw fire," she whispered. "And light."

Annie's brow pulled tight. "What are you talking about?"

But before she could ask again, Laura Lee gasped. Her whole face lit up—not with fear, but with immense joy. "That's the Holy Spirit," she breathed. "Lottie—you've been touched." She pulled Lottie against her in a soaking, trembling hug. The water splashed between them as Laura Lee pulled Annie into the hug. "You've been touched," she cried again, voice trembling with joy. "She's been touched!"

Lottie leaned into the embrace, dazed, her arms limp around Laura Lee's neck

Annie let herself be pulled into it, but only barely. Her body was stiff. Her hand brushed the small of Lottie's back, cold and uncertain. Her eyes didn't close. Her mouth didn't move.

She was looking at the sky.

And in the back of her mind, something sparked. Something she couldn't name. A flicker. A flash.

It felt like awe.

Then it burned.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Okay so. First of all.

SORRY FOR FALLING OFF THE FACE OF THE EARTH.

I promise I wasn't abducted by the wilderness (this time). I've been bouncing back and forth trying to decide if this chapter needed to be split in half (it probably did), if I should add certain scenes (I did), and how best to subtly sneak in trauma breadcrumbs for later (you know I did).

Basically, I was running around like Misty, and I appreciate your patience while I figured it out.

Because... this chapter?

Yeah. It was a lot.

And honestly, I have to give SO much credit to Sophie Nélisse for her portrayal of teen Shauna, especially in this stretch of the show. Rewatching this episode during drafting reminded me just how much range that girl has. She plays numbness, horror, and that quiet unraveling so well, and it really shaped the tone of Annie's scene with her. What a heartbreaking mess of a character.

Also, since this chapter gets real heavy, I just want to gently say: if you're going through something—anything—my DMs are always open. Whether you want to talk about the story or your own life, I'm here. This story deals with a lot of difficult themes, and I hope you're all being gentle with yourselves as you read. The girls' mental health definitely frays more and more as we go, and I don't take that lightly.

BUT on a lighter note!!!

Can we talk about Molly and Travis??? Because that chemistry is off the charts now. Like, they definitely had some spicy time. But also, they've really started opening up to each other in ways that make my heart ache. And clearly... Molly is the best. Obviously. She deserves her flowers and also maybe a nap.

That said, I am looking forward to a certain Jackie vs. Molly situation that's brewing. It's gonna be messy. You've been warned.

Next chapter will jump back to the adult timeline—because apparently we can't just leave adult Annie and Nat alone forever with their kids. We also kinda need to find her husband.

There's a lot to unpack after this one, so drop a comment if you want to theorize, scream, cry, or point out things you noticed. I love talking with you guys about this story—it truly makes the writing process feel so alive. Insert comment here:

Chapter 21 is already in progress and coming soon, so stay tuned!

Thank you so much for your patience and for sticking with the story! Your comments, votes, and support have helped me so much. If you're enjoying the fic, please consider voting, adding it to your library, or sharing it with friends or on your favorite message boards. It seriously means the world to me.

Question of the Chapter: What role would you fulfill in the group (e.g., cook, hunter, etc.)

Bonus Question: What do you think is gonna happen next chapter? For funsies.

Until next time,
Lyss