They’d left her behind without looking back.

A six-year-old girl, bundled in a threadbare coat too big for her, clutching a cracked plastic dinosaur. Joel found her near the back of the lodge, knees tucked to her chest, eyes fixed on the snow outside like she was waiting for someone to come back.

No one did.

Ellie was the first to sit beside her. You were the one who brought her a bowl of soup and a blanket. Joel just stood near the door, arms folded, watching—silent in that way he got when his heart was too full of something he didn’t want to name.

She didn’t say her name for three days.

By the end of the week, she followed you everywhere. Her tiny footsteps padding after yours through the snow, through the hallways of Jackson, through the quiet spaces in your days that used to belong only to you.

Joel carved her a little wooden horse. You sewed buttons back on her jacket. Ellie taught her how to whistle (poorly).

She started calling you Mama first. Quietly, almost like a test. You looked at Joel, not sure whether to correct her—but Joel only gave a small nod, eyes softer than usual.

He didn’t say anything the first time she called him Daddy. Just lifted her into his arms and rested his chin on her head like he’d done it a thousand times.

By the end of the month, there were drawings taped to the walls. Crayon scribbles of the three of you—her in the middle, holding your hands. Her family.

And Joel? He never called himself a father again.

But some nights, when she fell asleep between you two with her dinosaur tucked under her chin, he’d look over at you, eyes full of something warm and steady, and whisper,

—“Reckon we did good… didn’t we?”