Page 24 of Brotan

"Did you need something, Mom?"

"Your father and I were comparing our calendars. We might be able to arrange a visit next month, see this... clinic of yours firsthand."

My stomach knots. "A visit?"

"Don't sound so alarmed. We're simply curious about this place that's keeping you so busy."

I can picture their visit with perfect clarity—Mom's pinched expression as she catalogs the clinic's outdated equipment, Dad's clinical assessment of everything I'm doing wrong, their united front of disappointment. And now there would be Crow and the Ironborn to explain. The motorcycle club funding a doctor’s office. The Orcs are rebuilding a town after a human tried to destroy it.

"Maya?" Mom prompts. "Are you still there?"

"Yes." I straighten my spine. "It's just not a good time for visitors. The town is still recovering from significant damage, and we are in the midst of rebuilding its medical infrastructure. Maybe in a few months when things are more settled."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, your father wants to speak with you."

The phone rustles, then Dad's voice, crisp and direct. "Maya."

"Hi, Dad."

"Your mother says you sound unwell."

"I'm fine." I press my back against the booth, forcing myself upright. "Just tired."

He exhales, the sound weighted with judgment. "This is precisely what concerns me. Working yourself to exhaustion in a place with no support staff, no proper facilities. This isn't sustainable."

His dismissal mirrors what I've seen in Crow's eyes when he speaks of his past—that resigned certainty that nothing good can last, that survival means conforming to others' expectations. We're both fighting to define ourselves against the roles others assigned us.

"I have to go, Dad." My voice sounds distant to my own ears. "I'll call next week."

"Maya—"

I end the call and drop the phone like it's burned me. My eyes sting with exhaustion and the threat of tears I refuse to shed. Not here. Not in public.

"Parents, huh?" Helen's voice breaks through my fog. She stands beside the booth, an oversized sundae drowning in hot fudge in her hand. "They sound very…concerned."

Heat crawls up my neck. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough." She slides the sundae in front of me. "Figured you needed this more than the person who ordered it."

"I can't—"

"Hush." She slips into the booth across from me. "Eat your feelings like a normal person instead of bottling them up until the damn breaks."

A startled laugh escapes me. I take a spoonful of ice cream, the sweetness cutting through the bitterness still lingering from my father's disapproval.

"So," Helen says, settling in. "Want to talk about it? Your parents?"

"Not really."

She nods, watching me eat with quiet satisfaction. "My oldest son was pre-law. Wanted it his entire life. Full ride to UGA. Dropped out in his junior year to become a firefighter."

I look up, surprised by the personal disclosure.

"Oh, I lost my mind," Helen continues, eyes distant with memory. "Screamed, threatened to disown him. Couldn't understand why anyone would throw away a future as a lawyer to run into burning buildings."

"What happened?"

Something softens in her expression. "Two years later, he pulled a family of four from a house fire. The youngest was just a baby. The news aired a clip, and I saw the mother grab his hands, sobbing, telling him he was sent from God." She shakes her head. "That's when I got it. He wasn't running away from his dreams. He was running toward his purpose."

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