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I brought the chain around her throat.

The clasp took three attempts.

She waited through all of them.

When it caught, the clover settled in the hollow above her collarbones.

Josie touched it once.

Then she turned.

I put my hands around her face.

"Mine?" I asked.

The question mattered.

Her eyes held mine.

"Yours."

I kissed her.

Slowly. No desperation left in it. No storm. No cell bars. Her mouth opened beneath mine, warm and certain, and her hands came around my wrists as if she wanted to feel exactly where my strength rested.

When I lifted my head, the silver clover caught the morning light.

"Little one."

She leaned into my palm.

"Daddy."

Below us, Carrow Creek lay under snow with a debt through its heart.

For the first time, I didn't mistake uncertainty for emptiness.

I had something.

She had chosen me.

***

Two days later, the Bluebird bell rang over my head, and every conversation in the room stopped.

No storm remained in Silver Bend except what the plows had piled along Main Street. Snowmelt ran beneath the parked trucks. The Bluebird windows fogged above the booths, and the room smelled of coffee, bacon grease, wet canvas, and everybody's attention.

Same hour.

Same room.

A week since Derek Kane had stood in the aisle and handed Silver Bend the story it already preferred.

Josie stood beside me.

Her shoulder touched my arm. The silver clover sat beneath her shirt where nobody could see it.

I took off my hat.