CHAPTER 8 – SCRAP AND SOIL

Sable

I woke up to sunlight on my face instead of a slammed door.

No yelling.

No boots pounding down the hall.

No Luke barking my name like a summons.

Just warmth.

Just birds.

And somewhere down the block, a dog losing its mind behind a chain-link fence.

The mattress was still too firm, the blanket too thin, and the window rattled every time the wind kicked up—but for the first time in a long time, I didn’t wake up braced for impact. I stretched, rolled my shoulders, and let myself breathe.

I actually slept.

Toast. Eggs. The last of the orange juice. Hair pulled into a braid that wouldn’t stay neat no matter how many times I redid it. I shoved my feet into my boots and stepped outside.

The morning air was sharp, edged with exhaust and damp leaves. This neighborhood didn’t wake gently—it coughed itself conscious. A car backfired. Someone shouted two streets over. Music thumped from a passing truck, bass rattling loose boards and bad decisions.

It wasn’t pretty.

But it was quiet enough.

I headed for the back yard—if you could call it that. More dirt than grass. A half-collapsed fence. A patch of earth that had once been a garden before neglect and time had their way with it.

I dropped to my knees and got to work.

Hands in the dirt.

Roots ripped free.

Weeds yanked out with a violence that felt earned.

The soil was damp and dark beneath the surface, clinging to my fingers like it wanted to be noticed. I worked bed by bed, tossing weeds into a busted bucket, sweat crawling down my spine even though the air still held a chill.

I was halfway through the second patch when I heard voices.

Male.

Too close.

“Hey, lil’ mama.”

I didn’t look up right away. Didn’t flinch. Just kept pulling at a stubborn root, slow and deliberate.

“Looks like you could use some help back here.”

I straightened then, brushing dirt off my hands, and turned.

Two guys leaned against the sagging fence like they owned it. Early twenties maybe. Hoodies. Cigarettes. That lazy, predatory interest that had nothing to do with gardening.

“I’m good,” I said evenly. “I’ve got it.”

One of them smirked. “Aw, come on. No need to struggle. Some things are just easier with a man’s help.”

His eyes dragged over me, slow and obvious.

“In more ways than one,” the other added.

There it was.

I didn’t raise my voice. Didn’t posture. Just met his gaze and smiled—a sharp, humorless thing.

“If I needed help with that,” I said, “I’d find a real man.”

The silence snapped.

The first guy’s smile dropped. The second took a step forward, cigarette dangling from his mouth.

“Fuck you, bitch,” he spat. “One day you’ll be beggin’ for my dick. Just watch.”

The words landed heavy. Ugly. Promised.

I held his stare. Didn’t back up. Didn’t apologize.

“Not in this lifetime,” I said.

They stood there another beat, like they were deciding how far to push it. Then one of them laughed—too loud, too forced—and jerked his head toward the street.

“Whatever. You’ll learn.”

They walked off, boots crunching over broken glass and gravel, their laughter fading but not disappearing. Not really.

I waited until they were gone before exhaling.

My hands shook—not much, but enough that I noticed. Enough to piss me off.

I wiped them on my jeans and went back to work.

Because fear didn’t get to chase me inside.

Not anymore.

By midday, I had a respectable pile of weeds and two cleared beds. My arms ached. My shoulders burned. But the space looked different—less abandoned. Less helpless.

I trimmed the surviving herbs next, bundling rosemary and thyme with twine. Hung them on a nail by the kitchen window so the house would smell like something alive instead of dust and regret.

Then came the firewood.

The axe was where I left it, leaning against the stump. Handle worn smooth. Blade sharp. I tested the grip, adjusted my stance, I set the first log on the stump and brought it down hard.

Thud. Crack.

Over and over.

Each swing burned through the leftover adrenaline, grounded me back in my body. My arms ached. But I kept swinging. Kept splitting. Kept proving—if only to myself—that I still knew how to break something down clean.

By the time I stacked the wood beside the porch, sweat plastered my shirt to my back and my muscles screamed—but it was a good pain.

This wasn’t joy.

But it was something better than numb.

I grabbed one of the smaller logs and traced the clean edge with my thumb. Solid. Split true. My dad would’ve nodded in approval, maybe grunted something like “good seam.”

I dragged the wagon around—yeah, I had a wagon now—and loaded it with enough wood to last a few nights. The wheels creaked like a dying animal, but they rolled. That’s all I needed.

Back inside, I stacked the firewood by the hearth. My back protested, but I didn’t care. Every ache was mine. Earned.

Later, I ran a hot bath and dumped in the last of the Epsom salt Mom left under the sink. Lavender bloomed into the air, soft and cloying. I peeled off my sweat-soaked clothes and sank down into the heat like it owed me something.

Muscles loosened.

Breath slowed.

Mind quieted.

Through the window above the tub, I watched the sky turn from gold to rust to deep, violet blue. A few stars blinked through the haze of the city. No sirens tonight. No headlights sweeping past the blinds.

Just quiet.

Just me.

I tilted my head back, let the water lap over my collarbone, and let the silence hold me for a while.

Tomorrow, maybe I’ll fix the porch rail. Or scrape the moss off the siding. Or figure out if any of those old seeds are worth planting.

I closed my eyes.

This place wasn’t safe.

I knew that.

But neither was where I’d come from.

At least here, the danger wore its face openly. I need a gun.