You try to stay busy. You volunteer at the daycare, fix torn jackets, help with the food runs. Everyone smiles when they see you — Joel’s girl, they call you, with affection, with the kind of warmth you never thought you’d have again.

But it doesn’t reach you. Not really.

Because every time someone mentions a new patrol route, your stomach twists. Every time you watch him saddle his horse, check his rifle, tuck that damn flannel into his jeans, you feel the walls closing in.

It happened months ago, but sometimes you still feel like it was yesterday. The smell of smoke. The blood. The sound of Joel’s body hitting the ground.

You remember it every night — in pieces, in flashes — your lungs still catching on a scream that never quite made it out. He lived. Somehow. He lived. But something inside you didn’t.

The cabin is small — one bedroom, one window that faces the snowy ridges. You make coffee in silence. Joel sits at the table, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed. The steam fogs his face.

“You didn’t sleep again,” he says after a while, not looking at you.

You pretend you didn’t hear. You pour his mug first, then yours. His knuckles are scarred and still red from working on the fence line all week.

“Don’t start,” you whisper, sliding his cup across the table.

He sighs. “You been talkin’ in your sleep again. Yellin’.”

You freeze. You didn’t know that.

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes soft. “Maybe you oughta talk to Dr. Hayes again.”