The night before Ellie arrived, Grant appeared in my bedroom doorway. He was twenty-two, handsome, confident, and the son our parents proudly talked about at church. He looked almost guilty as he stood there with his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry about all this, Bryn,” he said. It was the kindest thing anyone in that house had said to me in weeks. I asked what he was sorry for, but he was already walking away. He never answered.

At 10:59 the next morning, I left in my old white Honda. As I turned onto Pinewood Circle, Grant’s red Jeep appeared at the other end of the street. Ellie was beside him, laughing, completely unaware that I existed. I drove fifty minutes south to a peach farm in Peach County, owned by Hattie Brown, the grandmother of my best friend Jolie. Hattie was seventy-four, tough, and experienced in the orchard. When she saw me carrying my duffel bag, she didn’t ask about the hospital. She simply handed me work gloves and said, “Hands first, questions can wait till supper.”