Page 1 of Big Risks

Chapter 1

Hailey

The"Welcome to Big Wood, Tennessee"sign is so faded I almost miss it. Population 3,412, or so they claim. I'm guessing they haven't updated that number since before I was born.

My Subaru groans as I navigate the potholed road leading into town. She's packed so full that my rearview mirror shows nothing but cardboard boxes and hastily stuffed garbage bags of clothes. Somewhere beneath it all is my coffee maker, the only kitchen appliance I truly care about.

"We made it, Gertie," I tell the car, patting her dashboard affectionately. She responds with an ominous rattle.

The downtown, if you can call it that, is a single street of brick buildings with hand-painted signs. Jones Family Hardware. Hog & Hickory Smokehouse. Big Wood Public Library, whichappears to be the size of my former apartment. I slow down, taking it all in. No Starbucks. No Target. Not even a proper grocery store, just something called "Giggly Piggly" that looks like a knock off Piggly Wiggly.

This is exactly what I wanted. A place where ambulance sirens won't jolt me awake at 3 a.m. Where I won't have to scrub someone else's blood from under my fingernails after a twelve-hour shift. Where the most traumatic event might be a tractor tipping over or someone's prize pig escaping.

I follow the GPS down a series of increasingly narrow roads until it announces, "You have arrived at your destination," in front of a dirt driveway nearly hidden by overgrown honeysuckle.

The farmhouse at the end of the drive is... well, "rustic" would be the real estate euphemism. Two stories of weathered white clapboard with a wraparound porch that sags in the middle. The red tin roof has patches of rust, and at least three shutters are hanging at precarious angles.

It's perfect. And it’s mine.

I kill the engine and sit for a moment, letting the quiet settle around me. No car horns. No hospital intercom. No roommate blasting true crime podcasts at ungodly volumes. Just birds and the distant sounds of what I assume are cows, but could honestly be any large farm animal. My knowledge of agriculture begins and ends with a failed herb garden on my Savannah apartment balcony.

The key the realtor mailed me is attached to a wooden keychain carved with the words "Home Sweet Home." I grab it and step out into the humid Tennessee afternoon.

The porch creaks alarmingly under my feet, but I've worked in a hospital where the elevator made death-rattle noises daily, so I'm unfazed. The lock sticks, requiring a combination of jiggling, sweet-talking, and mild threats before it finally gives way.

"Honey, I'm home," I call out jokingly to no one as I step inside.

Dust motes dance in the sunbeams streaming through the windows. The hardwood floors, though scuffed and worn, have potential. To my right is a living room with a stone fireplace, and to my left a dining room with built-in cabinets. Straight ahead, a staircase rises to the second floor.

I wander from room to room, mentally cataloging projects. The kitchen still has the 1970’s appliances that may or may not work, and hideous orange countertops, but nevertheless, it has good bones. The downstairs bathroom has a terrifyingly floral wallpaper and a claw-foot tub that's either charming or a tetanus risk. But surprisingly, the living room is spacious, perfect for the secondhand furniture I ordered that's being delivered tomorrow.

Upstairs are three bedrooms and another bathroom that appear to have been last updated when I was in kindergarten. I claim the largest bedroom for myself, standing in the center and slowly turning. The walls are a faded yellow, the floors the same wornhardwood as downstairs. Two windows overlook the overgrown backyard and the rolling hills beyond.

"This will do nicely," I tell the empty room. I've been talking to inanimate objects a lot lately. Probably not a great sign for my mental health, but after years of constant human interaction at the hospital, I'm enjoying conversations where no one is coding or bleeding out.

Back downstairs, I prop open the front door and begin the sweaty process of unloading my car. By the time I've made six trips, my arms are trembling and my T-shirt is sticking to my back. Southern heat is southern heat, whether in Georgia or Tennessee.

"Excuse me!" a voice calls from the driveway. "Need some help there?"

A woman about my age with a blond ponytail and the kind of tan that comes from actual outdoor activities, not spray bottles, is walking toward me.

"I'm Becky Henderson," she says, extending her hand. "I live about a half-mile down the road. Saw someone finally bought the old Jenkins place and thought I'd come say hello."

"Hailey Bennett," I reply, shaking her hand. "And yes, to help, if you're offering. I've got about fifty more boxes and the strength of a particularly weak kitten at this point."

Becky laughs and rolls up her sleeves. "Welcome to Big Wood. Fair warning, everyone will know your business by sundown. Small towns, you know?"

"As long as they bring casseroles with their nosiness, I can live with that."

Between the two of us, we empty the car in record time. Becky even helps me make up the bed I ordered online with the fresh sheets that the realtor left as a homecoming gift. So tonight, I'll have somewhere to collapse.

"What brings you to our little corner of nowhere?" she asks as we sit on the porch steps, drinking lukewarm bottles of water from the gas station because I haven't unpacked glasses yet.

I consider giving her the sanitized version. The one where I just wanted a change of pace, a quieter life. But something about her straightforward friendliness makes me opt for honesty.

"I was a trauma nurse in Savannah. Burned out hard after eight years of seeing the worst of the military injuries. After pulling late night shifts, my apartment was my sanctuary. At least until I came home to find the guy I had been seeing, sleeping with my roommate in my bed. After that, everything in the city just reminded me of things I was trying to forget." I take a swig of water. "So I cashed in my savings, bought this place sight unseen, and here I am, having what my mother is calling a 'third-life crisis.'"

Becky doesn't offer platitudes or the head-tilted look of pity I've come to dread. She just nods. "Sometimes you need to blow everything up and start over. My husband and I did the same thing five years ago. Left Nashville after his tech startup failed. Best decision we ever made."

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