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I help make pie filling while Aziza and Astrid work on crusts.

Every so often, my phone buzzes with texts from Dylan:

At Mom's. She says hi.

Then five minutes later:

Why haven't you responded?

Don't get too comfortable there.

Remember what I said about keeping your ears open.

That organic turkey better be worth it.

Mom thinks you should have come with me. I told her you chose them over us.

I respond just enough to keep him satisfied, hating myself for the automatic compliance.

Each ding makes my stomach clench, knowing that too long between responses means consequences later.

"Your phone's popular today," Meghan comments, glancing over from where she's chopping vegetables.

"Just Dylan checking in," I say, trying for casual. "You know how it is."

"Actually, I don't," she says with a laugh. "I never had to deal with any of that. Tor checks in, but not so intensely."

Around eleven, I excuse myself to use the bathroom, needing a moment alone.

In the mirror, I check that my sleeves still cover the bruises, practice my smile until it looks almost real.

The woman staring back at me is a stranger—hollow eyes, forced smile, long sleeves in a warm kitchen.

This is who I am now—a woman who hides damage under fabric and fakeness.

My phone buzzes again. This time it's different:

Leaving Mom's now. That little shit Bjorn better watch himself. No security at the hospital during his appointments. Would be a shame if something happened.

My blood freezes.

He's threatening my brother.

My sixteen-year-old brother who's already lost so much.

I grip the sink, knuckles white, trying to breathe through the panic.

Another text:

Unless you want to find out what else I know, you better remember where your loyalty is.

Then:

Tuesday. 2 PM. Physical therapy room. Third floor. I have friends who work there.

And, before another minute has passed:

Amazing how vulnerable people are when they're learning to walk again.