Page 11 of Found by the Pack
Imake it back to the car still holding the coffee and map, shoulders finally starting to relax.
One of us now.
The words stick.
I think about swinging by Sugar Haven for that muffin Shepard mentioned, but the idea of seeing more strangers makes my stomach tighten again. I’m not ready for small talk and sunshine and bakery smells.
Not yet.
Instead, I pull into the small grocery store just off Main Street. I find a clean sweater in the back seat and tug it on over the navy T-shirt. The scent of Shepard still clings faintly to the collar.
Focus, Sadie.
Inside, I rush through the aisles, grabbing whatever catches my eye—oatmeal, fruit, cold brew, granola bars, a box of microwaveable something. Enough to survive for a few days while I figure out how to breathe again.
I don’t even look at the cashier. Just pay, bag, and go.
The cottage is exactly where Jake said it would be.
A two-minute drive down a winding road that cuts close to the rocky edge of the beach. The sky’s still gray, but the ocean is loud and endless beside me. The houses are all soft pastel colors with big front porches and wide windows.
Mine is mint green with white trim. Two steps lead up to the door. A small porch swing sways in the breeze.
There’s a sign on the door.
Welcome, Sadie. Keys are inside. —Jake
I push open the door.
It smells like new paint and lemon cleaner. The inside is all exposed beams and clean lines—white walls, light floors, modern furniture. The windows stretch wide, and beyond them is nothing but ocean.
It’s too quiet.
I set the groceries down, walk to the window, and press my forehead to the glass.
You’re really here.
You’re doing this.
One mural at a time.
I whisper the words out loud, just to hear them.
And for the first time since Memphis, I think maybe I can.
Iwake up starving.
Like stomach-gnawing, bone-deep, full-body starvation. It takes me a second to remember where I am. The ocean outside the window. The silence. The clean smell of lemon polish.
Not Memphis. Not Max’s apartment. Not my old pack house.
Driftwood Cove.
My legs ache from yesterday’s drive, and my brain still feels like it’s catching up from last night’s emotional nosedive, but I make it to the kitchen without falling apart.
I tear into the protein bar first—dry, chalky, sweet with fake chocolate—but I don’t care. I chase it with cold brew straight from the bottle and then toss together toast and peanut butter and half a banana. I eat leaning over the sink like if I stop moving, I’ll start remembering again.
When the ache in my belly finally starts to settle, I press my palms against the counter and breathe deep.
