Neither is staying after you know you can leave.
She closed the notebook.
On her wall was a photo Mae had sent from the last canoe trip. Nora’s hair was wet, her gray camp sweatshirt hung crookedly from one shoulder, and both girls were laughing too hard to face the camera.
Nothing about them looked polished.
Nothing needed to.
On the first morning of school, Nora put the journal in her backpack.
She did not carry it because she expected trouble.
She carried it because the pages belonged to her again.
Before leaving, she passed the little list of emergency numbers taped beside the kitchen phone. Her mother had kept it there even after camp.
Nora touched the corner of the paper, then opened the front door.
Behind her, the door remained unlocked until she was all the way down the steps.
Ahead of her waited a place where nobody knew the cabin story unless she chose to tell it.
For the first time, that uncertainty felt less like danger and more like room.
