THEY CALLED HER “TOO MUCH” UNTIL HIS AUTISTIC SON REACHED FOR HER IN THE DARK

Then the front door opened.

A man filled the frame.

Tall. Lean. Hollowed out in the way men get when they stop sleeping properly. Arms crossed, jaw locked, eyes the color of creek ice and just as warm.

He looked at her the way people always did, doing his inventory: face, then body, then judgment.

“You’re Hayward’s girl,” he said.