Sage

I’ve set up a makeshift office in a shelter that was too small for anyone to make as their more permenant residence. It’s not much—a few chairs, a rickety table, and a battered notebook I’ve been using to track the camp’s emotional pulse. But it’s enough for now.

Today is full of meetups—one-on-ones with anyone who’s signed up or who just needs a space to talk. It’s not glamorous, but it’s necessary. The camp might run on supplies and plans, but without its people holding steady, it’ll all crumble faster than we can patch the cracks. Normally, I talk while we work on tasks around camp but after the Accord men started being too close for comfort, it created a more immediate need for a private space to talk. Everyone seems happy about this option.

The first visitor is Jess, a young girl barely into her teens. She sits across from me, knees drawn up to her chest, her fingers twisting nervously in her lap. She’s been having nightmares about the Accord men, she says, her voice so quiet I have to lean in to hear her.

“I don’t think they’re really gone,” she whispers. “Even if they say they are, they’re still watching. Aren’t they?”

I keep my voice calm, reassuring. “They’ve pulled back, Jess. They’re not here in camp anymore, and we have people watching to make sure it stays that way. But I get why you’d feel that way—it’s scary when people like that come close to where we live.”

She nods, but her eyes are still wide, still unsure. I lean forward, lowering my voice like I’m sharing a secret. “You know what helps me when I’m scared like that?”

“What?”

“Finding one small thing I can control. Like my breathing. Or making sure my space feels safe. Even something like tidying up can remind me that this is my space, not theirs. They don’t get to have that power here.”

Jess looks at me, her brow furrowing. “Like… putting my blanket over the window? So I can’t see outside?”

I smile. “Exactly. You get to decide what feels safe for you. And you can always talk to me if you need to, okay?”

Her nod this time is a little firmer. Her and I play a cups game for a few minutes before I send her on her way. When she leaves, there’s a lightness to her step that wasn’t there when she came in.

The next few meetups blur together—quick check-ins, some heavier than others. One man, Ray, spends half the session venting about his skepticism over the pipeline project. He’s loud, opinionated, and clearly itching for a fight, but I manage to redirect his frustration, turning it into a conversation about how his skills could be useful in overseeing the work. By the end, he’s grudgingly nodding, though I can tell he’s still wary.

It’s not about fixing everything in one go, I remind myself. It’s about planting seeds, giving people something to hold onto.

By midday, the sun is high, and I’m stealing a quick break to breathe. The camp is a hum of activity around me—voices, clanging tools, the distant neigh of horses. I sit on the edge of the shelter, my notebook in my lap, scribbling notes to keep my mind focused.

That’s when Leona arrives. She’s one of the older women in camp, usually quiet, but today there’s a sharpness in her eyes as she settles into the chair across from me.

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“I’m not here to vent,” she says bluntly, folding her arms. “But you need to know something.”

I set the notebook aside, giving her my full attention. “I’m listening.”

She hesitates, her fingers tapping against the edge of the chair. “People are watching you, Sage. Not just for what you’re doing, but how you’re doing it. You’ve got a knack for making people believe things can get better.”

Her words catch me off guard, and for a moment, I don’t know how to respond.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say carefully.

Leona leans forward, her gaze steady. “I mean, you’ve got people talking. Some of them think you’re the glue holding this place together. Others…” She pauses, her lips pressing into a thin line. “They think it’s dangerous. Making folks think we can live like it’s normal again.”

The weight of her words settles over me, heavier than I expected. “I’m not trying to give people false hope,” I say quietly.

“I didn’t say you were.” Her voice softens. “But hope’s a tricky thing, especially out here. You just need to be careful where you plant it.”

The conversation stays with me long after she leaves, lingering in the back of my mind as I finish the rest of the meetups.

By the time the day winds down, I’m drained in a way that goes beyond physical exhaustion. I’m scribbling the last of my notes when I hear the scuffling of dirt signaling someone is approaching. A moment later Dash steps inside.

His presence fills the small space immediately, warm and grounding. “Long day?” he asks, his voice low, his eyes scanning my face like he’s trying to read between the lines.

“You could say that,” I reply, managing a tired smile.

He steps closer, holding something out—a tin mug of tea, still steaming. “Thought you could use this.”

The simple gesture nearly undoes me. I take the mug, my fingers brushing his, and for a moment, the weight of the day feels a little lighter.

“Thanks,” I murmur, my voice soft.

The tea is warm against my hands, the steam curling up into the cool evening air. Dash leans beside me, his knee brushing mine as we sit together in the shelter. The quiet between us stretches long enough that it starts to feel intentional.

Then, he lifts a hand, signing in the simple, deliberate movements I’ve grown used to: Want silence?

I shrug, managing a faint smile. “I don’t know,” I reply aloud. “Sometimes it feels nice. Other times, it feels… loud.”

Dash nods, his gaze thoughtful as he processes that. He doesn’t push, just sits with my answer for a moment before signing again: Branson said something interesting today.

I raise an eyebrow, curiosity sparking despite my exhaustion. “Oh?”

“About Mara,” he says, his voice low as he switches to speaking. He keeps his tone light, but there’s a glint of amusement in his eyes. “He called her stubborn, opinionated, and wonderful. Among other things.”

I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me. “Wonderful, huh? That’s… unexpectedly sweet. For Branson.”

“Unexpectedly honest, too,” Dash adds, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. “It kind of slipped out, but it felt real.”

I sip my tea, letting his words settle. Branson isn’t the kind of person to say something like that lightly, and knowing how complicated things must feel for Mara… “She’ll be confused,” I say softly, mostly to myself.

“Probably,” Dash agrees, his voice tinged with humor. “But it’s good for him. And for her. Maybe they both need something a little messy to remind them they’re still living.”

I glance at him, his words striking a chord in me. “That’s pretty insightful for you,” I tease gently, a flicker of playfulness creeping into my voice.

He gives a small shrug, the corner of his mouth lifting in a barely-there smile. “I’m full of surprises.”

We lapse into silence again, but this time it feels lighter, like the weight of the day has shifted slightly. Dash’s hand rests on his knee, his fingers tapping a slow, steady rhythm, and I watch the movement for a moment before finishing the last of my tea.

“You want to head back?” he asks, his voice quiet but steady.

I glance at the empty mug in my hands, then back at him. “Yeah,” I murmur. “That sounds good.”

He stands first, offering me a hand to help me up. I take it, his grip warm and grounding as I rise to my feet. He doesn’t let go right away, and for a moment, the world outside the shelter fades, leaving just the two of us.

“Thanks, Dash,” I say softly, meaning it in more ways than one.

He nods, his hand brushing against mine as he finally lets go. “Anytime, Sage.”

As we step out of the shelter and into the fading light of the camp, I feel the tension of the day ease just a little more. There’s still so much ahead of us—so much to do, to fix, to figure out.