Page 44 of Bitter Truths

It’s not what I expected. It’s much better.

A woman practices archery near the edge of the clearing. Two spar with wooden swords. Someone tends a fire pit while others work in what looks like a huge vegetable garden.

Everyone looks... busy. Focused. Like they have somewhere to be.

“How many people live here?” I ask.

“About thirty right now,” Ezra says. “Changes depending on who’s ready to leave and who needs sanctuary.”

“All omegas?”

“Mostly. A few betas who’ve experienced traumatizing experiences. We don’t turn away people who need help. But no alphas.”

We walk into the clearing, and a few people look up, nod at Ezra and Megan, glance at me with curiosity but don’t stare. It’s the opposite of what I expected—no group hug, no overwhelming welcome, no demands to share my story with strangers.

Just acknowledgment that I exist and then back to whatever they were doing.

“Your cabin’s this way,” Megan says, leading me toward a cluster of small buildings.

The cabin is tiny—one room just big enough for a bed and a tiny desk. No bathroom. Windows look out at trees and more trees.

“It’s not much,” Ezra says.

“It’s perfect.”

And it is. It’s mine—my space, my bed, my four walls. I can hear people moving around in nearby cabins—voices, footsteps, the sound of someone chopping wood—but it’s not crowded. Not overwhelming.

It’s nice to feel like I can breathe without someone watching me do it.

“Rest up,” Megan says. “Dinner’s at six in the main hall. You don’t have to come if you’re not ready, but there’ll be food.”

They leave me alone. I drop my backpack and sit on the bed, which is just a mattress on a wooden frame.

Through the window, I can see the woman with the bow. She’s good—arrow after arrow hitting the center of her target. Focused, controlled, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

I want that. I want to be so focused on my goal that everything else disappears.

Dinner is weird but not awful—twenty-something people in a building that’s part kitchen, part dining hall, and part community center. Conversations happen around me, but no one pressures me to join. Someone hands me a plate of food—actual food, not the processed crap I’ve been living on—and I find a corner table.

The food tastes good… roasted vegetables from their garden, bread made from scratch, and meat they hunted for themselves.

“How are you holding up?” Ezra sits across from me.

“Tired.”

“Good tired or bad tired?”

I think about it. “Good tired, I think.”

“Tomorrow we’ll figure out how you want to contribute. Everyone works here—it helps keep us self-sufficient and gives people purpose.”

“What kind of work?”

“Depends on what you’re interested in... garden, kitchen, maintenance, security training, crafts. Whatever speaks to you.”

Security training. The woman with the bow, the men sparring. Learning to protect myself instead of just surviving attacks.

“Can I try the archery thing?”