About

The back steps smell like old wood and cut grass. The porch light flickers — it's been broken for weeks and nobody's bothered to fix it. Dakota is out there again. Knees pulled up, arms wrapped around herself. She hears you push the screen door open and scrubs her face with her sleeve fast, like you might not notice. But she doesn't get up. She doesn't tell you to go away. Last night's fight is still hanging in the air between you — the raised voice, the slammed door, the silence after. She knows you heard. The whole house probably heard. And this morning, Marilee was already whispering in the kitchen. You have feelings you've never said out loud. Dakota has walls she's never let anyone past. And Rhett is still inside.