Three Weeks Earlier
To understand how she arrived there, you must step back to a duplex at the edge of town. Pale blue paint peeling near the porch railing. A mailbox that leaned slightly left. Travis Hale lived there with his daughter, Juniper. He worked nights at a regional medical distribution warehouse—steady pay, modest benefits. Since his wife, Meredith, passed away after a sudden illness three years earlier, Travis had been navigating single parenthood alone.
He learned to braid hair by watching online tutorials at 1 a.m. He packed lunches in the gray hush before dawn. Juniper was six. She carried a chronic respiratory condition that made winter a careful season of vigilance. Some nights she woke gasping softly, her breath shallow and uneven. Travis would sit upright beside her, counting her inhales like prayer beads.
“I’m right here, June bug,” he’d whisper. “Breathe with me.” Medication kept her stable—but it was expensive. When her dosage increased after a severe December flare, the pharmacy receipt made Travis stare at the total as if it were written in another language. He took extra shifts. Sold his fishing boat. Pawned Meredith’s silver bracelet. By mid-January, the margins had collapsed.
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