When Rick saw the Matthews family cross the diner's doorway and disappear down the street, he didn't move right away. Staying still was safer.
If this had been before, he would have acted on impulse.
Seems like this mark only brought me benefits, he thought, watching his wrist.
He swirled the last of the coffee in his cup while following the ticking hand of the clock on the wall. He counted exactly five minutes — enough time for them to gain distance. After giving Sara a brief nod behind the counter, he stepped outside.
The clinic issue still needed to be handled. Ignoring it would only keep the sheriff on his trail. Unwanted shadows were the last thing he could afford with his new and glorious purpose taking shape.
Adjusting the sling, he adopted the weary expression of an injured survivor. Barely a minute down the road, he crossed paths with the sheriff coming from the opposite direction.
Rick spoke before the question could form.
"I'm heading to the clinic, Sheriff. Like I said yesterday."
Boyd hesitated for a fraction of a second. His dark eyes scanned Rick's posture, evaluating.
Finally, he nodded.
"Very well. If you need anything, let me know."
He continued on his way. He still needed to stop by the diner from time to time — the priest kept an eye on Sara, but Boyd didn't rely on that alone.
Rick exhaled slowly, suppressing a smug smile, and continued toward the improvised medical building.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Kristi had her back turned, organizing bottles on a metal shelf while speaking with Kenny's father. Rick had never bothered memorizing the old man's name. To him, the elderly were nothing but dead weight.
The man turned his head.
His once-clouded gaze snapped into sharp focus. He muttered something in Cantonese before leaning toward Kristi.
"I don't like him," he whispered in English, his voice trembling but firm in conviction.
"It's okay. He's just a patient," Kristi replied gently.
"Morning. I came to change the dressing," Rick said, cutting off any further questions.
"Good morning, Rick. The sheriff mentioned you burned yourself on the stove. I want to take a look at that wrist first."
He reacted instantly, pressing his good arm against his body.
"No need. It was nothing."
Kristi narrowed her eyes.
As Boyd said, he doesn't want to be examined.
"Rick, an infected burn here is a death sentence. Let me see it."
"I said I'm fine." His voice came out harsher than intended. To soften it, he pointed at the 'broken' arm. "The problem is the bone. This damn thing didn't let me sleep all night."
Kristi held his gaze for several seconds. She had seen patients downplay serious injuries before — but never someone so determined to avoid a simple examination.
In the end, she gave in.
"All right. Let's check the fracture."
She stepped closer, undoing the sling and unwrapping the bandages.
Rick clenched his teeth and let out a rehearsed groan worthy — in his opinion — of a golden statuette.
When the last layer of fabric fell to the floor, the air in the room seemed to freeze.
The skin of his forearm was far too smooth.
No bruising. No swelling. No trace of injury. It was as if the fracture had never existed.
Kristi stared at the intact limb in silence, her brows furrowed. In this town, wounds healed fast — but that went beyond any acceptable parameter.
She extended her hand to palpate the fracture site.
Before she could apply pressure, Rick yanked his arm back violently and let out a loud shout.
"Hey! What the hell are you doing? That's a broken arm!"
"Rick..." Her voice faltered. Her eyes moved from the intact limb to his face. "There's no wound anymore. No swelling. The skin is... perfect."
"I don't know what happened, or if it's this damn town's doing, but it still hurts like hell!" he snapped, holding the arm close to his chest.
"I need to check the bone."
"No. It'll hurt." He refused vehemently.
They remained in a tense standoff, the silence broken only by the faint buzz of a dying fluorescent light overhead.
Kristi assessed the situation. She couldn't force a larger, stronger man to submit to an exam without causing a scene — and without frightening Kenny's father.
She stepped back, raising her hands in surrender.
"Fine. All right. You don't need the bandages anymore since the skin has fully closed. But if you're still in pain, keep the arm immobilized with the sling."
Rick relaxed his shoulders.
"Thanks, Kristi. I'll do that."
He left the clinic with the restrained haste of someone leaving something incriminating behind.
Kristi stepped onto the porch and watched his back disappear down the street. She crossed her arms, an uneasy chill settling in her stomach.
"That was far too strange," she murmured.
Not even in this purgatory did people heal like that.
When Boyd showed up, she would tell him everything.
---
The porch of Colony House carried an easy, carefree energy.
Out front, someone had improvised a volleyball net using old ropes stretched between two long poles. Four residents were competing over a worn-out ball with the seriousness of people who had nothing more urgent to do.
On the other side, a group played cards on a crooked table. They even invited Daniel to join their poker game — wagering beans as if they were casino chips — but he declined politely.
He was there to observe.
His eyes drifted among the three names Dale's poisonous gossip had highlighted.
The first was a bearded, middle-aged man who had been a resident for about a year. He rarely mingled, preferring the garden and silence.
The other two were younger. They had arrived months ago and shared the habit of disappearing from communal spaces without anyone noticing.
Coincidentally, all three were outside.
The bearded man tended to the plants with the focus of someone who needed to keep his hands busy. One of the younger men was inside the greenhouse. The other sat beneath a tree, reading a book, isolated from the rest.
Female laughter pulled Daniel's attention away.
Julie and Fatima appeared from the side of the house.
"That blue flannel shirt Trudy was wearing... it's yours, isn't it?" Fatima asked.
Julie sighed. "Yeah. She took it from my bag. How did you know?"
Fatima's smile wasn't gentle. It was strategic.
"I saw her with new clothes, and I know she didn't order anything online. And since today's laundry day... we can take back exactly her favorites."
A genuine smile, with an almost mischievous edge, curved Julie's lips. It was the first time that morning Daniel saw the tension leave her face.
He approached, eyebrows raised in mock reproach.
"What are these two criminal minds plotting so early?"
Fatima winked at him. "Just girl things, Daniel."
Julie stepped forward. She carried a small stack of neatly folded clothes and held them out to him.
"Here. The ones you gave me yesterday."
Daniel took the garments. The fabric was soft, arranged with a care that contrasted sharply with the house's precarious state.
"I hid them well. Trudy didn't even get close," Julie added, satisfied.
He shifted his gaze between the clothes and her face.
Daniel noticed what no one else would: she hadn't returned them the day before because she had spent extra time making sure they were impeccable.
He looked at her a moment longer than necessary — just enough to make her blush.
His mind wandered briefly. There was something strangely domestic about the scene: the organized stack, the care in folding each piece, the way she handed them over without making a fuss.
"She's going to make an excellent wife."
The thought surfaced so intrusively and naturally it almost made him laugh.
"If any Twitter feminist heard that, I'd be canceled in record time. But I admit... it would be an interesting battle."
[Boomer thought alert detected. Warning: the next symptom may include an uncontrollable urge to buy a barbecue grill and complain about lower back pain.]
Daniel clenched his jaw to contain his smile.
He composed himself, clearing his throat softly. "Thank you, Julie. Really. They look great."
She lowered her gaze to the wooden floor, her cheeks turning a vivid shade of red.
"It was nothing," she murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
Less than a meter away, Fatima rolled her eyes, amused. Being the third wheel in that bubble of romantic tension definitely hadn't been part of her morning plans.
When Fatima threatened to take a step back and leave them alone, her eyes caught movement on the dirt road leading up to the house.
"Julie," she called, her tone shifting from playful to a gentle warning. "Your family is coming."
Julie froze.
The lightness evaporated as if it had never existed. She turned sharply, eyes locking onto Jim, Tabitha, and little Ethan.
The panic of not knowing how to act — how to cross the chasm that had opened the day before — was written all over her face.
But before the adults could say anything heavy with emotion, Ethan bolted ahead.
His short legs carried him across the lawn, and he threw himself around his sister's waist in a tight hug.
"Julie! Happy birthday!"
His voice came out muffled against her shirt. He stepped back, eyes shining with expectation, and held out a slightly crumpled sheet of paper.
"Look what I made for you."
Julie took the drawing with trembling hands.
Daniel, just behind her, leaned in subtly to see.
It was a crayon drawing. Five stick figures under a smiling yellow sun. Tabitha. Jim. Julie. Ethan.
And, holding their mother's hand, a tiny figure lying in a floating crib.
Thomas.
Everything Julie had built — discomfort, anger, defenses — collapsed in that single instant.
The cruel and beautiful simplicity of a child's mind had done what no therapy session or conversation ever could.
Her lower lip trembled.
Julie dropped to her knees on the rough porch and pulled Ethan into a tight embrace, burying her face in his shoulder to hide the tears that finally slipped free.
"Thank you. I love it. It's the most beautiful drawing in the world."
Tabitha stepped forward soon after. The mother's eyes were glossy as well.
She knelt beside her children, wrapping Julie in an embrace and kissing the top of her head.
"Happy birthday, my daughter. How are you? Is anyone here intimidating you? Treating you badly?"
Julie sniffed, shaking her head against her mother's chest.
"No, Mom. I'm okay. Really."
Jim crouched down next, completing the circle. He hugged his wife, daughter, and son, murmuring congratulations with a voice thick with emotion and relief.
Daniel and Fatima exchanged a silent look.
Both stepped back, moving closer to the door to give the family space.
The porch was still full of residents, but the space around the Matthews felt isolated, sacred in its own way.
Leaning against the doorframe, Daniel watched the scene unfold.
I hope they work things out.
He ran his hand over the clothes he was holding.
Because if this place doesn't break someone's mind, watching your own family fall apart certainly will.
It took him a moment to realize that as the family reunited and Julie's smile returned, one was beginning to form on his own face as well.
The realization settled in his chest — light and unsettling at the same time.
He was starting to care.
And that was dangerous.
Daniel let out a faint, ironic half-smile to himself and headed toward the motorhome to put the clothes away.
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