PART 6
They climbed into their cars, the doors slamming one by one in a bitter chorus of defeat. The gravel crunched under their tires as they backed out of the drive, kicking up dust before speeding down the lakeside road, disappearing around the bend where the cedar trees swallowed the light.
When the last engine sound faded away, the silence of the lake rushed back in.
I stood alone in the center of my yard. The wind caught a loose piece of pink insulation, tumbling it across the dead grass toward the water before it caught on a reed near the shore.
I walked up the wooden steps, stepping past the jagged edge where my glass sunroom used to be. The interior was exposed to the cool lake air. My grandmother’s wicker chair still lay on its side in the mud just below the deck.
I set my bag down on the porch rail, walked down the steps, and knelt in the damp earth.
With slow, deliberate movements, I righted the wicker chair. I dusted off the mud from its wooden legs and picked up the half-soaked yellow cushion, placing it back on the seat. The fabric was damp, and the wood was chipped, but it was sturdy. It would hold.
I walked back inside, pulled a heavy roll of heavy-duty plastic sheeting and a staple gun from my emergency tool closet—the one thing my family had never managed to find or break into—and set to work.
The sun was beginning to dip below the tree line, painting the surface of the lake in streaks of deep gold and bruised purple. As I stretched the thick plastic across the gaping hole in my wall, sealing out the evening chill, my hands stopped shaking.
My arms were tired. My house was damaged. The repairs would take weeks, and the bill would come out of my own savings.
But for the first time in my life, every single nail I drove into those studs belonged to me.
