Page 9 of Big Risks

Instead, I pull out my phone and look up the Ridgeview Elementary staff directory. It takes only seconds to find her: "Hailey Bennett, RN, Temporary School Nurse."

I close the browser before I can do anything stupid. But as I head to bed, the fortune cookie wisdom echoes:Sometimes the ones who crack us open aren't the ones we expect.

Maybe. But some things are better left sealed shut.

Chapter 3

Hailey

I wake to the sound of birds chirping outside my window, a soundtrack so different from the nights I spent catching a bit of sleep in the hospital when we were shorthanded. The constant alarms, intercom announcements, and pages are so ingrained in me that for a moment, I forget where I am. Sunlight filters through the lace curtains, another charming feature of my farmhouse that I initially planned to replace but now find oddly comforting. Though they definitely need to be cleaned.

It's been two weeks since I arrived in Big Wood, and somehow the town is already wrapping itself around me like my favorite blanket. My phone buzzes, and Becky's name lights up the screen.

Becky:Morning glory! Mrs. Geller is hosting her monthly pancake social at the community center. You're coming, right? Non-negotiable, by the way.

She’s taken me under her wing and forced me to socialize in town. I get the feeling she thinks the more involved I am, the more roots I plant, the more chance I’m going to stay in town. What she doesn’t know is that I plan on staying, just for the peace and quiet and slower life.

Me:Do I have a choice?

I laugh to myself as I type it because I can see her look of determination to make sure I join her.

Becky:Absolutely not. Nine o'clock. Bring your appetite and conversation skills. Mrs. G will want to know your entire life story, blood type, and future aspirations.

Me:Should I prepare a PowerPoint presentation?

Becky:You are going to keep me on my toes, aren’t you? Just bring yourself. And maybe some maple syrup. Mrs. Geller's pancakes are legendary, but she's stingy with the syrup.

Sighing, I set my phone down, glancing at the soldier's letters spread across my kitchen table. I've been reading them each night, tracing the careful penmanship with my fingertips. Last night, I found one of the early letters that made my heart ache.

My dearest,

The stars look different here. Everything does. I close my eyes and try to picture your face, but it gets harder each day. The desert has a way of blurring the beautiful things. I miss the simplicity of home—the way the light hits your hair in the morning, how you laugh with your whole body, the small wrinkle that appears between your eyebrows when you're concentrating.

Write to me about the flowers in your garden. Tell me about rain and sunshine and ordinary miracles. I need to remember there's still good in the world. Sometimes I feel like I'm disappearing here, becoming someone I don't recognize. Your letters are my anchor to who I really am.

The guys in my unit got a care package yesterday. You should have seen them fighting like children over chocolate chip cookies. It made me laugh for the first time in weeks. Small mercies.

Forever yours,

J

I carefully fold the letter and tuck it back into its envelope. "Who were you writing to?" I whisper to the empty kitchen. "And why didn't she write back?"

I've started a journal, something I haven't done since high school, to chronicle my thoughts about these letters. I stare at my words I wrote before bed.

With all my heart, I wish I could have written him back. He deserved someone who took the time to answer him.

The clock on the microwave blinks eight o’clock, jolting me back to the present. I quickly shower and throw on a sundress and sandals, hoping it's appropriate attire for a pancake social. Whatever that is.

I grab the bottle of maple syrup from my pantry, a fancy Vermont brand I splurged on during my last grocery run, and head out the door. The morning air carries the scent of fresh-cut grass and something sweet baking in a neighbor's kitchen from across the street.

As I get in my car, I mentally rehearse what I might say to the locals. After fifteen years of medical training and practice, I've mastered the art of clinical conversation, but genuine small talk still makes me feel like an awkward teenager. In Savannah, relationships were forged in the trenches of overnight shifts and crisis management. Here, I'll need to learn the language of community events and casual encounters.

My phone buzzes with another text from Becky.

Becky:Don't even think about bailing. I can see your house from my kitchen window.

While at a stop sign, I pause and answer her.

---