Pacer Burton had faced down wild animals, dust storms, and more barroom brawls than he could count, but nothing prepared him for the whirlwind that was her. The day he saved her was burned into his memory—a blur of adrenaline and confusion as she yelled things like “This is not the vibe!” and brandished a metal water bottle like a weapon. Her clothes were bright and bizarre, her words even more so, but Pacer had fought off the trouble chasing her and brought her home, figuring things couldn’t get much stranger.

He was wrong. Since moving in with the Burtons, she’d turned their world upside down. She introduced them to things like “meal prepping” and got everyone drinking “hydration cocktails,” which, as far as Pacer could tell, were just water with lemon and salt. She showed his brother Clint how to “manifest” a good harvest and tried to explain the concept of a “meme,” which had Clint and Sam more confused than a horse on a raft. Pacer couldn’t help but be amused—and a little in awe—of the way she brought life and chaos into their home.

His ma, Neddy, took to her in a way that surprised everyone. They’d sit together on the porch, Neddy braiding her hair while she talked about something called “therapy,” and Neddy would nod like she understood every word. It made sense, in a way. Both women had this unspoken bond of being a little out of place, a little wiser and weirder than most folks expected.

One evening, Pacer found her in the barn, fiddling with one of her inventions. She wore a crop top that his ma had tried—and failed—to understand, and she had her hair twisted up in a tight bun held with what looked like a bright blue scrunchie. She was trying to coax their old mule, Henry, to drink water from a mason jar, whispering, “Come on, Henry, hydration is self-care.” Pacer leaned against the barn door, trying to hide his grin.

“You know, I don’t think Henry cares much about self-care,” he drawled, arms crossed over his chest. She turned to him with a mock-offended gasp, hands on her hips.