The town of Blackwood settled into its winter like a stone sinking into still water—slow, silent, and utterly at peace.
Caleb woke each morning before dawn, a habit that two years of running had carved into his bones. He would dress in the dark, make coffee in the small kitchen of the house they had rented on the edge of town, and stand at the window watching the snow fall through the grey light. The house was old but sturdy, its walls thick timber, its roof steep enough to shed the heaviest snow. It had three bedrooms, a fireplace, and a porch that wrapped around the front like a promise. It was the first real home Caleb had known in longer than he could remember.
The others were still asleep. The house was full of them now—Nyla in the room across the hall, Troy and Isla in the room at
