Page 46 of Bitter Truths

“Thanks?”

“It’s a compliment. Most people can’t focus for five minutes on their first day. You went an hour without your mind wandering once.”

She’s right. I didn’t think about them once. Didn’t spiral into self-hatred. Just focused on the task at hand.

“Same time tomorrow,” she says, taking the bow.

The rest of the day blurs together. Lunch in the garden, learning which vegetables are ready to harvest. Afternoon in the kitchen, helping prep dinner and learning that cooking can be meditation if you let it be. Evening maintenance, fixing a loose board on someone’s porch and learning how to patch a hole in a roof.

By the time I fall into bed, I’m too exhausted to do anything but sleep.

Day three, my arms don’t shake as much when I draw the bow. Day four, I hit the target more than I miss it. Day five, Anna starts teaching me about different types of arrows and when to use them.

“Why archery?” I ask during a break, both of us sitting in the shade and drinking water.

“Quiet,” she says. “Teaches patience. Makes you think before you act. Good skills to have when the world’s trying to break you.”

“Did it? Break you?”

She looks at her scarred arms. “For a while. But I put myself back together… just like you will.”

I want to ask what happened, but she doesn’t offer, and I don’t push. Everyone here has stories. Everyone here survived atrocities. But no one’s competing to see who had it worse.

The days start blending together in the best way. Up at dawn, coffee, breakfast, archery practice, sparring where I get my ass kicked over and over, weapons training, gardening, lunch, whatever needs doing, dinner, sleep. My body stops aching as much. My hands develop calluses from the bowstring. My shoulders get stronger from drawing and drawing and drawing.

Three weeks in, I hit a bullseye for the first time.

“Not bad,” Anna says, but she’s trying not to smile.

“Not bad? I’ve been working toward this for weeks.”

“And now you’ve done it once. Can you do it again?”

I can. Not every time, but more often than not. The focus becomes automatic.

I start helping with other things too… security patrols around the perimeter with Marc, who also teaches me self defense… garden and kitchen duty with Ellie, who makes bread that could turn into an addiction.

Everyone here works. Everyone contributes. No one gets to just sit around feeling sorry for themselves, which turns out to be exactly what I need.

Six weeks in, Megan finds me on my porch after dinner.

“You look different,” she says, settling into the chair I dragged out from inside.

“Different how?”

“Less like you want to disappear.”

She’s right. I do feel different. Not healed—I’m not naive enough to think six weeks fixes months of trauma or a lifetime of beliefs. But... present. Like I exist in my own skin instead of floating somewhere outside it.

“I don’t think about them as much,” I admit.

“The alphas that hurt you?”

“Any of it. The whole mess. Hard to spiral when you’re too busy to think.”

“That’s the point. Idle time’s dangerous when you’re healing. It gives your brain too much space to go to dark places.”

We sit in comfortable silence, watching other people move around the settlement. Someone’s playing guitar near the fire pit. A few people are still working in the garden, taking advantage of the last light.