Page 53 of Breaking Through

At the bedroom door, he paused. "You know this doesn't change anything, right? The magazine, Portland—they're just possibilities. Not exit routes."

I couldn't meet his eyes. "You should be excited about those possibilities. Not worried about leaving a small-town ranger behind."

"Hey." He crossed back to the bed, cupping my face in his hands. "Look at me."

I did, drowning in his gaze.

"I love you." His thumbs brushed my cheekbones. "Even when you're being ridiculous about deserving things. Even when you try to push me away because you think it's for my own good." He kissed me softly. "Especially then."

His phone buzzed again. He glanced at it and chuckled. "Now Dad's explaining the optimal grind size for single-origin beans to Maria. I really need to rescue them."

"Go." I forced myself to smile. "Take care of your family."

"You're my family, too." He slung the Polaroid back around his neck. At the cabin door, he turned back one last time. "We'll figure this out, Wade. Together."

I listened to his car start, gravel crunching under tires as he pulled away. The cabin was too quiet in his wake as if all the oxygen had followed him out the door. His scent lingered on my sheets.

For three years, I'd cultivated solitude like a shield. Now, it felt less like protection and more like exile. In the void, something else stirred. There was an idea taking shape where Holden's absence had been.

The therapy sketches I'd done after Chicago caught my eye, spread across my coffee table where I'd been reviewing them earlier. Something clicked.

I grabbed a fresh notebook, and words suddenly poured out faster than I could write them down. Art therapy in nature. Using different mediums to process trauma and connect with the environment. Holden's eye for beauty combined with my experience in recovery.

My hand cramped as I filled out page after page. Veterans groups, first responders, and anyone needing space to heal—we could start small—weekend workshops by the lake, combining hiking with creative expression. The shelter's murals could be a centerpiece, showing how art preserves memory and processes pain.

My fingers itched to research, to validate that the idea wasn't just a nighttime fantasy. The laptop's glow filled my kitchen as I typed "art therapy nature programs" into the search bar. Results cascaded down my screen: "eco-art therapy," "wilderness art healing," "environmental arts rehabilitation."

Something tightened in my chest—not disappointment that the idea wasn't original, but relief. Other people were already using the concept. It worked. Studies from veterans' programs in California showed reduced PTSD symptoms. A center in Oregon combined hiking with artistic expression for first responders.

I clicked through photos of outdoor art studios, reading testimonials from participants who'd found their voice through paint and pencils under open skies. One image showed a group sketching by a lake, their faces reflecting the same peace I felt during early morning swims.

The validation fueled my excitement. I opened a new document and started outlining how we could adapt the proven approaches for Michigami State Park. We had advantages others didn't—Holden's eye for capturing healing moments, my firsthand understanding of trauma, and the shelter's history of artistic restoration.

I fumbled for my phone, texting Maya:

Remember that grant proposal about expanding community programs? The one collecting dust in the files?

Her reply came quickly:

The one you said was too ambitious? It's in my desk. Why?

I grinned in the darkness.

We need to update it. Think bigger. Art therapy + nature. Your environmental ed background would be perfect.

The ideas kept flowing. We could partner with the VA hospital in Milwaukee. Set up rotating exhibitions in the visitor center. Create a space where Holden could grow his artistic vision while staying connected to Blue Harbor.

My phone lit up again. It was Tom texting:

Whatever you're planning, count me in.

I laughed out loud, the sound echoing off my cabin walls. For the first time in years, possibilities didn't feel like threats. They felt like promises.

Sleep was impossible, with the ideas crackling through my veins. At four AM, I traded my notes for hiking boots and a thermos of coffee. It was too cold for a swim. The trail would help me think—it always did.

The north trail parking lot held one other vehicle: Mike Sullivan's battered Jeep. He was a regular during my early patrols, though we rarely exchanged more than nods. Marine Force Recon, according to the faded sticker on his bumper. Like me, he seemed to find more peace in dawn silence than in counseling sessions.

Frost crunched under my boots as I climbed. The beam of my headlamp caught ice crystals on late autumn leaves, transforming them into natural stained glass. It was the kind of detail Holden would capture while I walked past until he taught me how to see.

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