I parked the truck and walked up the wooden steps, my boots sinking into the drifts.

The key was exactly where Elliot always left it, hidden inside a rusted coffee can on the porch.

I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The air inside was freezing, smelling of dry pine and old newspapers.

I found a flashlight in the kitchen drawer and clicked it on, the yellow beam cutting through the darkness.

The living room was small, dominated by a large stone fireplace and a heavy oak dining table.

I walked over to the fireplace, cleared out the old ash, and built a small fire using crumpled newspaper and dry kindling.

The flames took hold slowly, casting long shadows across the log walls.

I sat down at the heavy oak table and took the plastic sleeve from my pocket.

I slid the yellowed note out.

It was written in my mother’s neat, looping handwriting.

*Avery, we cannot do this anymore. Your father and I need to start over. You are old enough to look after yourself now.*

I laid the paper in the center of the wooden table.