Read the first chapter

Hollow Creek - Before The Thunder

Storms rarely begin in the sky.
Sometimes they gather deep in the roots,
where bones and secrets lie buried, waiting to be heard.

PROLOGUE

She ran barefoot through the pines, breath burning in her chest as branches lashed her face and arms, the sharp scent of pine rising from the dark earth around her. Leaves tore at her skin, twigs snapping beneath her feet as she pushed forward, not knowing where she was going or why. She ran through woods that made no sense, driven by the certainty that if whatever hunted her caught up, she would not survive. Even without turning around, she could feel it behind her, the unmistakable awareness of being watched.

Her lungs screamed for air. A rock cut into her heel, pain flaring sharp and hot, and she stumbled, barely catching herself before falling. She had to stop, just for a moment. She bent forward, hands braced on her knees, dragging air deep enough to think.

Lightning split the sky above her, the air crackling with the kind of pressure that made the pines hold their breath. In the charged stillness before the thunder struck, a voice threaded through the dark, low, and certain, close enough to feel rather than hear.

“This is where the sky breaks.”

The words did not echo or linger. They simply existed, as if they had always been there in the dark.

Thunder crashed down hard enough to shake the ground beneath her feet. For one suspended instant the earth seemed to loosen beneath her weight. Then the ground gave way without warning and she dropped, weightless for the span of a heartbeat before the world slammed into her and drove the air from her lungs. Dirt rained down around her, settling against her skin, filling her mouth and hair, clinging to her like ash.

She lay stunned as the darkness pressed close, telling herself it had to be a dream, that this was how nightmares ended. The air was cold and damp, thick with the smell of turned earth. It was heavy in a way dreams never were, and the ache moving through her body felt far too real.

She sat upright and realized she had fallen into some kind of cellar. The space was tight and low. The air carried a faint smell beneath the damp earth, something wrong, something that had been sealed away too long. Her thoughts scattered as questions surfaced without answers.

Where was she, and why was she running?

She moved carefully, evaluating her limbs, making sure nothing was broken. Whatever had chased her faded to the edges of her awareness as survival took over. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, shapes slowly emerged around her. The ceiling hung low overhead, supported by warped beams that sagged with age, while the packed dirt walls glistened faintly with moisture. With sudden urgency, she knew she had fallen where she should never have been. She listened, holding her breath, waiting for footsteps or voices that never came.

The darkness thickened around her until her hand brushed against something soft. The texture gave beneath her fingers, fabric stretched thin and worn, the surface sagging slightly under the weight of her hand. The shape was wrong for anything that belonged in dirt, too deliberate to be debris, too soft to be earth. Her hand stilled as the realization crept slowly into place, her mind resisting it even as the truth settled over her.

It was a mattress.

Her hand moved farther before she could stop herself, then stilled as a shiver traced its way up her spine. Her pulse surged hard enough to make her swallow. She forced herself to believe it was only fear bending her senses out of shape, that the darkness of the cellar was playing tricks on her mind.

The instant her fingers pressed down, the flashes came. Not memories. Not dreams. Fractured impressions that struck hard and vanished just as quickly.

A parking lot under buzzing lights. Keys turning in an ignition that refused to catch. A familiar face appearing at the driver’s window, someone she recognized well enough to lower the glass. A drink pressed into her hand, sweet and strange. The sense of time slipping, stretching strangely. Her thoughts lagging behind her body. The cellar, the smell of damp earth and old wood. Her hope dying as a calloused hand closed around her arm. Weight. Darkness. A mattress beneath her. Breath too close. A voice low and certain, promising ownership.

“You were always meant to be mine,” he whispered, his voice almost tender. “Now you will be. Forever.”

His hands closed over her, and the world went dark.

CHAPTER

Thursday, June 5, 2025

Clara jerked awake, gasping. The nightmare clung to her like smoke as the world rushed back into focus. She was back in her bed in Atlanta, heart racing, sweat soaking through her t-shirt. The air in the room was heavy, the same strange pressure that lingered just before a summer storm. She wasn’t sure where she was until the familiar hum of the old window unit grounded her back to reality.

She shook her head, trying to push it away as she rubbed her temples and shuffled barefoot to the kitchen. The morning light filtered weakly through thin blinds, landing on the mess that was her life. It was a small two-room efficiency apartment filled with thrifted furniture and stacks of unopened boxes from three moves in two years.

She had grown up with just her mother, who worked at diners and cleaned houses on weekends when the bills stacked up. She learned early that keeping a roof overhead wasn’t automatic. By twelve she was wiping tables and seating customers after school. By sixteen she was working two jobs of her own and thinking nothing of it.

Now, in her thirties, divorced and exhausted, she’d built a life full of motion but short on meaning. There were people everywhere, but no warmth. She had spent so long moving forward that she wasn’t sure what she had been moving toward.

The shower sputtered as she turned it on. It never got properly hot, but June heat meant she didn’t need it to. She stepped under the spray, the damp-earth smell of the nightmare still clinging to her as she scrubbed the dream away as best she could.

“I’m losing it. I’ve got to get some rest,” she muttered to herself as she dressed quickly. She grabbed her lunch and packed her Molly’s Diner uniform into her bag. The double shift ahead already made her feet hurt.

By 3:55 p.m., she was locking her cash drawer at First Southern Bank, sliding her badge into her purse.

“See you tomorrow, Clara,” her manager called from his glass office.

“See you then,” she said cheerfully, but she didn’t feel it.

The heat outside slapped her in the face as she walked the two blocks to the diner. She changed into her uniform, tied her apron, tucked her hair back, and stepped behind the counter.

By nine, the dinner crowd had thinned, and the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry insects. She poured coffee, wiped crumbs from a booth, and counted the minutes until she could sit down and relax.

Her feet were throbbing, her head ached, and the nightmare still haunted her thoughts. She was lost in thought when her phone rang, making her jump. She didn’t recognize the number, but she answered anyway.

“Hello?” she said, tucking the phone between her shoulder and ear as she refilled the napkin dispensers.

“Is this Clara Smith?” A man’s voice, deep and Southern, came through the line.

“Yes, this is she.”

“Hello, Clara. My name is Harold Whitmore. I’m an attorney in Hollow Creek, Alabama. I’m calling on behalf of your grandmother.”

She froze. “My grandmother? I’m sorry, sir, but you have the wrong person.”

“Was your mother Margaret Turner?”

“No.” She hesitated, then added, “She was Gigi Smith.”

“Wait,” Harold said quickly before she could hang up. “You were born on October 1, 1993, and did you take a DNA kit last month?”

Her throat tightened as her pulse picked up. “Yes,” Clara said, surprised.

“That’s how we found you,” Harold said.

“I don’t know who Maggie is.” Clara was confused.

“Your mother went by Maggie, but she was Margaret Turner,” Harold said.

Clara’s mind stuttered. The name Margaret sounded formal, almost sharp, compared to the gentle, familiar Gigi she’d grown up with. It sounded wrong.

Harold said, gently, “I’m calling about your biological paternal grandmother, Lydia Ray. Your name came back connected to her missing son, Jamie.”

Her thoughts spun as she tried to process what he was telling her. “I’m sorry, what? I don’t understand.”

He paused, choosing his words, “Your father was James Ray, and he went by Jamie. He went missing not long after your mother got pregnant from what we can tell. Your mother moved from Hollow Creek. One night she just left and was never heard from again. Lydia had no idea your mother was even pregnant with you. When Jamie disappeared, Lydia was devastated. She never got closure.”

Her breath caught.

“After Jamie disappeared, Lydia never stopped looking. When DNA testing became more widely used for missing persons, she submitted a sample,” he let that sit for a second before continuing, “Her profile was entered into a database. When you took your test, it flagged the match. She’s been asking for you,” Harold continued gently. “Insisting, really. She’s in the hospital for observation after a cardiac event, but they’re planning on sending her home tomorrow.”

She pressed a palm on her forehead, breath shaking. “She wants to meet me?”

“Very determined to meet you,” Harold said, “She will cover any expenses needed for your travel.”

Before she could think, tears welled hot behind her eyes. Her mother had died when she was eighteen, and her father had always been a blank space. Several months back, she had looked for ways to find any family she might have out there. It was as if she and her mother had not existed anywhere before Atlanta. Then a few months later, Clara saw an advertisement for a DNA test that promised to help people find lost family connections. She had wanted a family, but that had been something that belonged to other people.

She had taken the DNA test with a heart full of hope. The results came back with distant cousins and scattered matches, nothing close enough to matter, nothing that told her where she came from. She tried to learn how to build a tree, how to connect the dots, but the branches never quite met. Between two jobs and the daily weight of living, she hadn’t had the time to dig deeper. Eventually it was a dead end, another unanswered question she folded up and set aside.

After a moment of silence, Harold spoke again.

“I know this is a lot,” he said gently, “And I understand if it comes as a shock. If you need time to think about it, that’s completely reasonable. Lydia is stable now, and they expect her to recover,” Harold continued, “I can provide you with whatever additional information we have about your family if you’d like. I have a link to a digital family tree that I can send you that will share a lot of information.”

She finally found her voice and said, “I would really appreciate the link to the tree. I had no idea about any of this. We moved constantly. By the time I was older, we were in Atlanta. It always felt temporary.” Her voice lowered. “They don’t think she hurt him, do they? I can’t believe that.” The implication began to press in.

“No,” Harold said firmly. “Your mother loved Jamie, and she was never a suspect. There were witnesses who confirmed seeing Maggie in town, and your father was headed back to his parents’ place. Your mother helped search for him for a few weeks, but there was a hurricane that happened right after, and it derailed the search party. Some folks saw Maggie leaving one night in a hurry and she was never seen again. They went to her apartment, and a lot of her stuff was still there, but it looked like she had quickly packed a few bags and grabbed the most important stuff and left.”

“I just don’t understand why she changed her name if she wasn’t running from the police.”

“She may have been trying to protect herself. Protect you. If you want to come, we would be more than happy to try and help you sort it out,” Harold offered.

“I don’t know what to say,” Clara said hesitantly.

Harold said, “We knew this would come as a surprise, that is why I called instead of Lydia. We did not want to overwhelm you any more than necessary, please take your time.”

She thanked Harold and gave him her email address. He assured her that he would send over the information shortly. She promised to call him the next morning with her decision.

She jotted down Harold’s information on the back of a ticket and took a deep breath. She finished her shift and headed home, trying not to think about how long it had been since anything new had entered her life without bringing trouble with it.

When Clara arrived at the lobby of the apartment building she grabbed her mail from the box. Most of it was junk, but she put it under her arm as she climbed the steps to her second-floor unit. She locked and deadbolted the door, checking to make sure the latch caught. She set her things on the counter, and as she turned away, the mail slipped to the floor.

“What was that?” Clara said aloud as she turned around and saw three letters on the ground. One was a bill, one was a loan offer, but the other one sitting away from the rest caught her eye. Her stomach tightened before she even picked it up.

Georgia State Board of Pardons and Paroles.

Frozen, she stood there, staring at her own name typed neatly beneath it, forwarded from an address she had already tried to leave behind. When she finally tore it open, her eyes skimmed the formal language without fully absorbing it until one line stopped her.

Hearing scheduled for next Tuesday.

She folded the letter once then set it face down on the counter. She did not pick it up again. She pushed herself upright and sighed. “I don’t have time to fall apart.” So, she did what she had always done; kept moving.

CHAPTER

Friday, June 6, 2025

Clara called Harold first thing before she could talk herself out of it. When he answered, his voice was measured and professional, as if he’d been expecting her.

“I can be there this afternoon,” she said, surprising herself with how certain she sounded.

There was a brief pause on the line. Then, “I’ll let Lydia know,” he said happily, “Is there anything you need? She will pay for a rental car or any travel expenses you have. I can send you some money if you need it. Just whatever you need she wants you to know she will take care of it.”

After the call ended she stood for a while with the phone still in her hand, staring at the small kitchen table as the quiet of the apartment pressed in around her. The conversation had left the room feeling different somehow, as if the life she had woken up in that morning had quietly shifted beneath her feet. For the first time in years, the past didn’t feel finished.

Eventually she drew a slow breath and reached for the phone again.

Practical things came first. She called the bank, then the diner, explaining she needed to take off that day and the next two weeks. Both were short on notice, but they agreed to make it work. When asked if everything was okay, she smiled into the phone.

“Family.” The word felt unfamiliar on her tongue.

By the time she got off the phone the urgency had softened into anticipation. Clara moved quickly, marking off a list in her head as she packed her bag. Several changes of clothes, comfortable shoes, toiletries, and her notebook.

Today everything would change, and for once, she couldn’t wait. She loaded her bag into the car and headed toward Alabama.

The drive felt quiet, almost unnaturally so for a city girl used to the constant hum of traffic. Out here, the world moved slower. Mailboxes leaned crooked by dirt driveways. Cows stood in open pastures, swatting flies with their tails.

The drone of tires and the heat shimmering off the asphalt lulled Clara into a trance-like state as she made the drive into town. June in Alabama didn’t believe in mercy. The air outside was thick and heavy, a living thing pressing against the glass. Sunlight filtered through the trees in long shifting bands as the road wound gently forward.

“Take Exit 26,” Harold had told her. “You’ll run alongside the railroad tracks for a bit. Just follow them until you roll into the first small town and stay on Highway 14. Don’t turn off. That road will carry you straight into Hollow Creek.”

He’d been right. For several miles, the railroad ran beside the road, the tracks glinting in the afternoon sun before slipping behind a line of trees and reappearing again farther ahead.

“Well,” she whispered, tightening her grip on the wheel, “guess there’s no turning back now.”

The road curved between two stands of pines before the railroad tracks crossed the pavement at the edge of town. Clara slowed as the tires bumped softly over the steel before settling back onto asphalt again.

As she approached the crossroads at the edge of town, the radio crackled suddenly and dissolved into a burst of static. Clara frowned and reached for the knob, turning the volume down out of habit. The station had been fading in and out since she left the highway, and she assumed she had simply drifted beyond its range. Momentarily the car filled with nothing but the sound of tires moving across warm pavement and the distant hum of insects rising from the roadside grass.

The traffic light ahead turned red and she slowed to a stop, glancing once at the quiet stretch of road disappearing into trees on the far side of the intersection. Just as she started forward again, the radio cleared again as suddenly as it had vanished. The music returned as though nothing had interrupted it. Clara barely noticed, nudging the volume back up while the town of Hollow Creek opened in front of her.

Hollow Creek wasn’t big, maybe two thousand people, if that. The sign at the edge of town read Established 1820, the paint fresh against weathered wood.

She took in the town. The square was anchored by the courthouse. It rose above the surrounding storefronts with quiet authority. Just beyond it, set back but close enough to feel connected, stood the jail. Brick storefronts lined the street in tidy succession, their upper windows tall and narrow. Old-style streetlights stood evenly spaced along the sidewalks, iron replicas from another era, each fitted with hanging baskets spilling over in a colorful array.

The Coosa River moved steadily and unseen, close enough to shape the air even when it wasn’t visible. The whole place felt gathered into the basin, protected without being hidden.

Clara slowed near the Eason’s Quick Stop & Mechanics; a faded Coca-Cola sign clung stubbornly to the exterior. She pulled into the lot and cut the engine. The neon Open sign flickered faintly in the window of the gas station. She rested her hands on the steering wheel, listening to the absence of traffic noise. There were no sirens and no constant mechanical thrum she had grown used to. In Atlanta, quiet had often meant something was about to break, or already had.

Here, it seemed to mean something simpler. It meant people were moving at their own pace. It meant no one was rushing past her without looking.

Clara stepped into the warm afternoon air and let the door shut behind her. The engine ticked softly as it cooled. Laughter drifted from the open garage bay where an older man leaned beneath the hood of a truck, talking with a couple who looked as though they had nowhere else to be. The sound was easy and unhurried, the kind that belonged to towns where time moved differently. She gave them a small nod before turning to the pump. The woman held Clara’s gaze a second longer than strangers usually did, as if deciding whether to say something.

Clara turned back to the car and lifted the pump handle. The metal was hot against her palm. As the numbers climbed, a faint prickle gathered along the back of her neck. She glanced toward the garage just as the woman stepped out from the shade, moving toward a black SUV parked near the edge of the lot, but she was no longer looking her way. The woman reached for the door, then stopped as her attention was directed across the street.

Clara followed her gaze. A green king cab pickup sat along the opposite curb, the bed crowded with construction equipment, ladders strapped over the cab, a coil of extension cord hanging loose near the tailgate. For a second she didn’t see anyone near it. Then she noticed the man leaning against the hood, one boot crossed over the other, watching her in a way that suggested he had no intention of looking away. He wasn’t doing anything, yet the way his gaze remained fixed on her suggested he had been watching longer than she realized. When their eyes met, he didn’t glance aside like most people would. If anything, his attention sharpened slightly, as if he had been waiting for her to notice.

It was not a crude look. At first it seemed almost puzzled, as if she resembled someone he once knew and he was trying to be certain. Then something in his expression shifted. The curiosity narrowed into something more deliberate, less uncertain, and the air between them felt strangely thinner.

The pump clicked off, sharp in the quiet. Clara straightened, the open stretch of pavement between her and the road suddenly feeling too exposed. When she looked at the woman, she was still standing beside the SUV, posture rigid, gaze locked on the man with a look that carried no confusion at all.

His eyes slid past Clara and settled on the woman. Whatever passed between them was silent, but the woman’s expression hardened as she met his gaze, the look sharp enough to make Clara suddenly less certain about the man watching her. The look the woman gave him held no welcome and even less patience. It only held a quiet, unmistakable contempt. It was not the reaction Clara expected, and the intensity of it unsettled her far more than the man’s staring ever had.

After a second he turned and walked down the sidewalk, disappearing behind the courthouse corner. The woman held her gaze on the empty space for a breath longer. Once he had disappeared she got into her SUV and drove away without looking at Clara.

A faint unease settled low in Clara’s stomach. She had the strange sense of stepping into something already underway and wondered if she had chosen the wrong place to stop.

She closed her tank and walked toward the storefront. As she reached for the door, the darkened glass caught her reflection along with the shimmer of heat rising from the street. For a fleeting second she thought she saw the broad outline of a man near the green truck behind her.

She turned.

The sidewalk was empty. The pickup remained, sun glinting off metal and chrome, construction gear casting hard shadows against the bed. But the space beside it held nothing at all.

She held the quiet for a breath longer than necessary, then pushed the door open.

The bell above the door gave a thin metallic jingle as she stepped inside. The lights flickered once before settling. The air smelled of coffee, motor oil, and fish bait while an old ceiling fan turned lazily overhead. Behind the counter, a man in a ball cap glanced up and nodded.

“Afternoon, ma’am.”

She grabbed a bottled soda and made her way toward the register. The man behind the register welcomed her to town. She looked at his name tag. “Thank you for the warm welcome, Terry.”

She headed toward the door, and when she pulled it open she nearly collided with a tall man standing just outside the threshold. He stepped aside quickly, one hand catching the door, so it didn’t swing back toward her.

The impact of almost running into him sent a sharp jolt through her chest. He filled the doorway without trying to, broad through the shoulders, built solid rather than bulky, the kind of frame that came from long days of real work, not the need to prove himself.

The uniform registered a second later. Sheriff.

His dark hair was cut short and practical, but it was his stillness that caught her. He wasn’t looming. He was simply watchful. It was the look of someone used to walking into chaos and deciding quickly what needed to be done.

The words vanished before she could say them.

“Sorry, Clara.” His voice was low and even, touched with the same Southern cadence Harold carried, but steadier somehow. He stepped aside without rushing her, giving her space as though he’d meant to all along.

“It’s fine,” she said, hoping the heat rising in her face wasn’t obvious.

She blinked at him. “Wait… how do you know my name?”

“Harold,” he replied, a faint grin breaking through. “News travels quick when someone new crosses the bridge.” He extended his hand. “Sheriff Eli Ray. Welcome to Hollow Creek.”

His handshake was firm, not overpowering, but sure. He met her eyes long enough to register the details before looking away, curious without prying or making her feel small.

“I… uh… thank you,” Clara said. “I didn’t expect anyone to know I was here yet.”

Eli gave an easy shrug, “Around here, news moves quicker than the mail truck. When Harold announced Lydia had a granddaughter and she was coming home, that has pretty much been the headline today.”

Home. The word sounded natural in a way that surprised her.

“By the way,” he added, glancing toward her car, “your back tire’s showing wire. I talked to Douglas. He’ll get a new one on for you.” He nodded toward the open bay of the garage beside the station, “You won’t be going anywhere on that one.”

Before she could respond, he reached into his pocket and handed her a card. “That’s my number. Put it in your phone. If you need anything while you’re here, you call me. Or just holler,” a hint of humor touched his mouth.

He grabbed a bag of chips and a bottle of water from the cooler by the register, “I was about to head to the hospital anyway. You can ride with me while Douglas swaps the tire.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that,” she said, genuinely caught off guard by how simple he made it all seem.

She glanced back toward Terry as she handed him her car key, “Do I need to go ahead and pay for the tire, or—”

Eli looked at Terry and lifted his chin slightly. “Put it on the tab.”

Terry nodded without hesitation.

“See you, man,” Eli called on his way out, pushing through the door.

“Douglas! Eason!” he hollered toward the garage. They turned and waved at Eli as the older man under the hood of a truck straightened without surprise, like this was a rhythm they’d followed for years.

Outside, Eli walked to his patrol truck and opened the passenger door without ceremony, setting her bag in the back seat before stepping aside. For a brief second, Clara didn’t move. The late afternoon sun caught along the edge of his badge, and the faint crackle of the radio drifted from inside the cab. He was steady, unhurried, carrying himself with the quiet confidence of someone used to being obeyed, but he was still a man she had met only moments ago.

Stepping into unfamiliar places had never frightened her. Too much of her life had been built around it. New classrooms when they moved midyear, apartments that never quite felt like home, jobs taken because survival left little room for preference. She had learned how to read a room before speaking in it, how to slip into its rhythm without drawing attention. Being the stranger had never been new to her. It was simply a skill she carried with her. Still, the uneasy prickle from the gas pump stayed faintly at the base of her neck.

She settled into the seat, and he closed the door gently. As Eli rounded the hood and climbed in, she kept her tone casual, as if the question didn’t matter much.

“Does everyone stand across the street and study new arrivals,” she asked lightly, “or was that just special treatment?”

He glanced over as he started the engine. “What kind of study?”

“Green king cab,” she said, fastening her seatbelt. “Ladders strapped over the top. Looked like he’d been parked there a while.” She shrugged faintly. “Probably nothing. He just seemed interested in the price of my gas.”

“Green truck?” Eli asked.

The words landed differently than she expected. His gaze moved briefly to the rearview mirror before returning to the road, his hand tightening once on the steering wheel before easing again.

Clara noticed the shift at once and wished she hadn’t mentioned it. “I didn’t mean to make a thing out of it,” she said quickly. “He didn’t say anything.”

Eli glanced at her, surprise flickering across his face. “You didn’t make a thing.” A quiet breath left him, almost a laugh at himself. “He just likes people to know he’s around.”

That didn’t quite match the feeling she’d had at the pump, but Clara let it go.

“Don’t let it ruin this,” he added after a second, his tone settling again. “Lydia’s been waiting a long time for any piece of Jamie she could find.”

He studied her then, not in the same way the man across the street had, but carefully, as if weighing the tension gathered behind her calm instead of anything he could see. “We’re glad you’re here,” he said finally. “He won’t bother you.”

There was a faint edge beneath the calm, not irritation exactly, but close to it. It was as if the man in the green truck had caused trouble before.

She watched the way his hands rested easy on the steering wheel, the way his shoulders stayed loose even as his gaze tracked every movement at the intersection. He wasn’t loud about protection. He didn’t posture. He simply occupied space like it belonged to him.

She nodded, the tightness at the back of her neck easing in a way she hadn’t expected. Nodding once, as if storing the sound of it somewhere inside her. His words hadn’t pushed or promised. They had simply landed.

She let the silence settle before speaking again.

“When I go back to get my car, I’ll pay for the tire,” Clara said after a minute, breaking the silence. She didn’t have much, but she kept a small savings account for emergencies. This qualified.

Eli glanced at her and shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.”

“I can’t let you do that, Sheriff.”

He grinned. “You can call me Eli. And it really isn’t a big deal. Lydia keeps an account at the store and insists we use it. Says it helps keep Mom and Pop stores open.” He paused, then added with faint amusement, “Hard to argue with her.”

“You said your last name was Ray,” she said, turning back toward him, “Are we family?”

There was a flicker in his expression before he answered, “Not exactly.” He kept his eyes on the road. “When I was young, Lydia and Matthew took me in. I changed my name when I turned nineteen. They’re my family in every way that counts. Matthew’s the reason I went into law enforcement.”

The excitement in her face softened and became steadier, “That’s… really special.”

They pulled into the lot of the small county hospital just as the sun dipped lower behind the tree line. Eli stepped out first. As Clara reached down to retrieve the soda bottle she’d dropped at her feet, her door opened without warning.

For a split second she wasn’t in Alabama at all. The car door swung open and she was slung to the ground. A sickening crack filling her ears.

“Clara, are you okay?”

She looked up at him, rubbing her arm without realizing it, and gave a nervous laugh and said, “Yes, you scared me. I’m not used to having someone open my door. Normally for me that would mean I was about to be robbed.”

That made him laugh, the kind that slipped out before he could stop it.

She hesitated, then took his outstretched hand. His palm was warm and calloused, strong in a way that felt safe, not rough. He steadied her as she stepped down, his other hand at her elbow, guiding but not pulling.

“Thank you, Eli.”

“Anytime, ma’am,” he replied, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Clara paused beside him as the late afternoon heat rolled off the pavement. The hospital sat higher on the hill than she expected, its windows catching the last light of the day. For the first time since leaving Atlanta, she wondered if she had meant to come this far.