I tell myself the drive won’t get to me, but it always does. Long stretches of nothing, cracked asphalt, dead radio stations fading in and out. Gives a guy too much time to think. Too much time to remember the parts he’s tried to outrun.

The motel shows up on the horizon like a bad decision—half-rotted wood siding, windows clouded with dust, neon sign buzzing like it’s on its last breath. Figures this is where she’d land. Norma always did love pretending a fresh start was just a new zip code away.

I pull up slow, engine ticking as it cools. I sit there for a second, hands locked on the steering wheel, jaw tight. I told myself I wasn’t coming here angry. I lied, apparently. But anger’s not the reason I’m here—not the main one. The main reason is the kid.

Agnes.

Twelve. Too young to be living in a place like this. Too young to already know how to stay quiet and keep out of the way. I spot her before I even get out of the truck—sitting on a swing under the porch awning, legs tucked up, braid hanging over her shoulder. She watches me like a stray animal watches an outstretched hand: hopeful, but smart enough not to trust it.

I swallow whatever the hell that does to my chest and get out. Gravel crunches under my boots. The air smells like bleach, mildew, and fried onions. Classic Norma.

Agnes doesn’t move when I get close. She just hugs that stuffed rabbit of hers a little tighter, like she thinks I might rip it away. Jesus. I soften my voice without meaning to.

“Hey,” I say, nodding at her before I head for the house. “I’ll be right back.”

The door sticks like it always did. Inside, the place looks… lived in, but not in a good way. Clutter everywhere. TV left on static. Norma’s jacket draped over a chair like she just stepped out of it. Same patterns. Same mess. Same feeling in the pit of my stomach.

She comes out of the kitchen when she hears me. Freezes halfway.

“Dylan.” She says it like a problem she hoped wouldn’t show up.

“Yeah.” I shove my hands in my pockets, not because I’m nervous—just because it keeps me from punching a wall. “Guess you forgot to tell me you were moving again.”

Her mouth tightens. “You shouldn’t have come.”

I huff out a laugh—one of those humorless ones that tastes like rust. “Yeah. I know. Came anyway.”

Movement in my peripheral. Agnes peeking around the corner, rabbit held like a shield. I look at her, then back at Norma, and for the first time in years, I don’t bother hiding the accusation in my eyes.

“She doesn’t even know who I am.” My voice is low. Controlled. Dangerous in the tired way. “You didn’t even tell her she had a brother.”

Norma opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Same old story.

So I turn toward the kid.

I kneel a little—not much, just enough so I’m not towering over her. Up close, she looks even smaller. There’s dirt on her sleeve. A bruise on her knee. Not surprising, but it still pisses me off in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

“Hey, Agnes,” I say quietly. “I’m Dylan. Your brother.” The words feel strange on my tongue—like something I’m not sure I’ve earned the right to say. But I say them anyway. “Didn’t mean to show up and freak you out. Just… had to see you.”

She blinks at me, eyes big and cautious, and something settles in me—an old instinct, maybe. An old promise no one asked me to make, but I make it anyway.

I stand again, turning slightly so she’s not trapped between me and Norma.

“I’m not here to take anything,” I tell her. “I just want to know you. Make sure you’re okay.”

Outside, the wind kicks up dust across the parking lot. The motel sign flickers. Agnes shifts her rabbit from one arm to the other.

And I feel myself make a choice—quiet, heavy, unshakeable.

I’m staying. Not in the house, not under Norma’s roof. But close enough. Close enough to keep an eye on things. Close enough so Agnes never has to wonder who’s in her corner.