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I pause, a tin of instant coffee still in my hands.

Can she read minds?

She doesn’t look at me at first. She keeps folding, smoothing the same corner again and again. “He had a way of making you feel small,” she continues, voice steady but edged with something old.

My heart gives one hard thud. That sounds familiar.

“He left one day,” she says, setting the towel down a little harder than necessary. “Just walked out. And I spent a long time wishing I’d been the one to make that decision first.”

She finally looks at me.

“I never forgave myself for staying as long as I did.”

The words sit between us, heavy in the cramped little camper.

“I promised myself after that,” Barbara adds, softer now, “I’d never make myself smaller just to keep someone else comfortable. That’s where I found my strength.”

I swallow. My voice comes out quieter than I expect. “How do you know if you deserve happiness?”

Barbara doesn’t hesitate. “What makes you think you don’t deserve happiness?” She pauses, bumps my shoulder with hers. “From where I’m standing, you are the only one standing in your way.”

My fingers tighten around the coffee tin.

“Leon had to learn that too.” Barbara’s mouth tightens, grief passing over her face so quickly I almost miss it. “The driver who hit his parents got away. And for a long time, that boy carried the unfairness of it like it was his fault.”

I swallow hard.

“He didn’t,” she says. “And neither did you.”

I’ve always admired Barbara for her bluntness. It just hits a little differently when it’s directed at me.

Barbara’s expression softens, but her voice stays firm. “You can’t keep serving a sentence for someone else’s crime, Clair. And you can’t go around thinking everyone’s the same as one asshole.”

A huff of laughter escapes me.

“You’re smarter than that. You’ve been through enough to know the difference. You’re just better equipped now to spot who’s full of shit and who’s worthy of your time and love.”

Barbara squeezes my arm once, then slips past me and heads out, leaving me alone with the hum of the camper, the smell of coffee, and the weight of everything.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a small, bloodstained, folded paper.

You are worth saving.

Hell yes, I am.

I fold the note carefully and tuck it back into my pocket.

Leon keeps finding ways to reach me.

Ink. Patience. Space. Truth.

Maybe it’s time I learn how to reach back.

And I know exactly who to ask. Someone who won’t make this a big deal. Someone who already has me to herself every morning.

I step out of the camper and cross the clearing, my path already decided.

Trish is inside her van with one boot propped against a supply crate, flipping through a novel with a bare-chested man sporting tiger stripes and ears on the cover. Of course. The world ended, but Trish apparently still has standards and those standards include feline anatomy.