Dad launches into his morning activities, tidbits about the calf and diarrhea-stricken chickens, news that sends Marigold to her room. I advise him accordingly, grateful for the distraction. I almost wish it were Monday with a waiting room full of patients to keep me occupied.

The back door opens after a light knock, and Uncle Jim enters, looking official in his suit, tie, and the gold badge hooked to his belt.

“Mack. Grady.” He nods.

“Jim,” Dad says, motioning to another barstool. “Have a seat. Want a BLAT?”

“Um, no thanks. I’m on duty.” His stone-like expression turns to me. “Grady, I’ve spoken with everyone, and we’ve concluded our investigation. You’re being cited for reckless driving. You’ll be fined and⁠—”

“What? That’s it? Reckless fucking driving?”

“Grady, calm⁠—”

“I hurt that woman, Jim. She’s… she’ll never be the same again.”

He looks confused but continues, “Grady, yes, she’s hurt, but not in a way that justifies criminal charges. Miss Strange didn’t want charges brought against you at all. Everyone agrees—this was an accident. Wrong place, wrong time. You should accept that, too.”

“He’s right, son. Accidents happen.”

“No. That’s not good enough.”

“Even charging reckless was a stretch,” Jim continues. “Improper driving would’ve been more accurate. You’ll probably talk the judge down at trial.”

“So, I fucked up, but she’s the one fucked.”

Jim’s shoulders fall in a deep breath. “Take heart, Grady. You’re still financially responsible for the damages and her medical bills. Your insurance companies will hash it all out. With the Sullivans involved, there’s hope for a civil suit. So, cheer up.”

Dad chuckles, but I shake my head, steaming. “I don’t care about the Sullivans. What about Marina? She should sue me.”

“She might. But, given our chat last night, it’s unlikely. She wanted a chance to thank you⁠—”

“Thank me?”

“For saving her life. She wanted me to tell you she’s okay. Truly. Her words.”

My eyes close tightly with the word, thinking of our promise. She remembers our truth policy. Only she’s not okay. Not the way I found her.

I lean against the counter next to Dad, lightheaded and uneasy. “She should hate me. Is she… what is she? Foolish? Naive? Insane?”

“No. None of that. She’s kind, Grady.” He moves toward the door. “I gave Donny the go-ahead to fix your truck. It’s salvageable. Hers isn’t. Talk later.”

He leaves, and Dad groans. “It’s best to let this go, son. Focus on taking better care of yourself. Get your fishing pole and put this behind you. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I breathe out, wanting exactly that. She’s a stranger, yesterday’s over, and, surely, her family, such as it is, is caring for her by now. Even so, remembering her words, my fists tighten against the granite countertop. I thought today I’d get a family.