Now it just felt like they’d thrown her to the dust and dared her to make something of it. So she would. By morning, she was back at the barn, pulling the trap door open again with a yank that startled a crow off the roof. Her flashlight beam cut through the cellar darkness like a blade, and the moment her boots touched earth, she marched straight to the trash bags.
She grabbed the first one—taped shut, heavy—and hauled it out into the open center of the room. She stared at it for a moment, then hissed, “Let’s see what all your crap’s hiding.” She ripped it open. Out spilled a tangle of old clothes, folded bedsheets, and what looked like a child’s wooden toy tractor—scratched and missing wheels.