Page 51 of Found by the Pack
She nods. “I thought I’d start with this one before the fire station. Smaller scale. Fewer moving parts.”
“Smaller scale,” I echo, looking at the ladder. “Still looks like a long way down if you take a spill.”
She doesn’t argue. Just tucks the chalk between her teeth and grabs the ladder.
“Here,” I say, crossing the lot. “Let me hold it for you.”
Her mouth curves into a smile—quick, almost reluctant—but it still hits me square in the chest. “Thanks.”
I plant my boots and brace the ladder as she climbs, the scent of paint and something faintly sweet drifting down.
Sadie’s been up there for close to an hour already. She works fast, tracing broad curves against the brick. I watch her shoulders move, the way she leans into the reach without hesitation.
“Oh, by the way,” I say, tilting my head up, “your car’s going to take a little longer than we thought. Window needs replacing.”
She pauses mid-line, looking down at me. “That’s okay. I talked to the mayor yesterday—he gave me a bike.”
I blink. “A bike?”
“Mmhmm.”
I can’t help the scoff. “You do realize it’s a long ride from your place to half the places you’re going to be working?”
She shrugs, going back to her tracing. “I’m getting used to it. Besides, I could use the exercise.”
“You should’ve asked for a car.”
That gets a laugh—quiet, almost under her breath—as she looks down at me again. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this about me, Captain Ashford, but I don’t like being a bother.”
I shake my head. “Not a bother at all. And for the record, Jake would’ve loved an excuse to help.”
She glances away, back to the brick. “I’m good.”
We settle into silence after that. Just the scrape of chalk against brick, the occasional shuffle of my boots on the gravel when I shift my stance. She works with the kind of focus you can feel in the air—like nothing else exists for her but the wall in front of her.
Two hours pass like that. My forearms ache from keeping the ladder steady, but I don’t move. Not until she finally comes down, dusting chalk from her hands.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” she asks, arching a brow.
I nudge her shoulder as she passes. “I’m the captain. Decided to take a break.”
That earns me an actual laugh this time, warm and quick.
We lean against the wall, both of us looking up at the faint white lines she’s laid out. “So what’s the vision here?” I ask.
Her eyes light in a way I haven’t seen before. “I’m thinking something that ties the feed store’s history into the land around it. Native plants, maybe a few animals—wild and domestic. Nothing too heavy-handed, just… a celebration of what’s fed this town for generations.”
I find myself watching her more than the wall as she talks. The way her hands move when she explains, sketching invisible lines in the air. The way her voice shifts, softer at the edges, like this is the part of her she doesn’t give to just anyone.
She’s tougher than she looks. That much I’ve figured out in the short time I’ve known her. But there’s something else under it—a carefulness, like she’s learned to move through the world without taking up too much space.
The bike. The way she said she doesn’t like being a bother. The fact that she’s up on a ladder three days after a wreck because she doesn’t want to lose daylight.
I don’t say any of that. Just keep listening, asking questions, letting her paint the picture for me.
When she’s done, she leans back against the wall, eyes tracing her own chalk lines. “I want it to feel like it’s always been here,” she says quietly. “Like the wall was waiting for it.”
I don’t know why, but that hits me in a place I don’t usually let anyone touch.
