“He’s yesterday’s news,” I said, feeling a strange, clean lightness in my chest.

“Let’s get this house off the trucks.”

The crane operator started the engine, and a low rumble shook the ground.

The scent of diesel and warm hydraulic fluid filled the clearing, mixing with the smell of dry sage.

Nathan walked toward the flatbeds, shouting instructions over the noise of the engine.

He used a series of precise hand gestures to guide the crane arm.

The thick steel cables went taut, creaking under the massive weight of the kitchen module.

Slowly, the first section of our old life rose into the air.

It hovered above the trees, its white siding gleaming in the bright Texas sunlight.

A shadow swept across the dry grass as the module swung toward the concrete pad.

Two workers in orange vests stood ready at the corners, holding heavy iron pry bars.

They guided the steel base onto the thick anchor bolts embedded in the concrete.

With a loud, metallic thud that echoed through the valley, the kitchen settled into place.

“First section secured,” Nathan called out, checking his spirit level against the frame.