But I remembered the night before Garrett went into the hospital.

We had sat on the back porch of this very house, watching the fireflies rise from the tall grass.

He had taken my hand, his palm rough from years of working the timberlands.

*They don’t care about the land, El,* he had whispered to me.

*They only care about what they can carve out of it and sell to the highest bidder.*

*Promise me you won’t let them tear down the woods.*

*Promise me you won’t let them rewrite our story.*

I looked up at Victoria.

Her eyes were cold, filled with a quiet threat.

I looked at Charles, who was chewing on the inside of his cheek, waiting for me to make his life easy.

I took a deep breath, the smell of Garrett’s old pipe tobacco still faint in the heavy drapes of the room.

I laid the gold pen down on the desk.

It made a sharp, definitive clink against the polished mahogany.

“No,” I said.

My voice did not shake.

Victoria’s face went instantly rigid.

“What do you mean, no?” she hissed.