Mystic Lake wasn’t in sight yet —

but the air already felt lighter

with every mile between her and Lot 7.

Because the truth was,

Lot 7 hadn’t started out looking like trouble.

Lula had seemed nice enough —

in that “I bake banana bread but also have a court date” kind of way.

Everything looked on the up‑and‑up.

Sure, there was the cat colony.

And poison ivy hanging off every tree like Dollar Store garland.

But nothing that screamed run for your life.

Except maybe the way Lula talked about her “babies.”

That should’ve been the first red flag —

the way she said one was “on the way out”

and the other “needed to go,”

like she was running a clearance sale on dependents.

Spine really should’ve paid better attention to that.

Lula’s was the kind of place that fooled you first

and bared its teeth later —

like a chihuahua in a tutu.

She was leaving a place she never belonged —

even though it had once pretended she might.

She cared for the cats.

It was simply in her nature.

Some people rescue animals.

Some people are the animals.

But the truth was —

everything ahead was still uncertain.

Every mile.

Every plan.

Every next step.

But uncertainty hits different

when you’re finally driving toward something

instead of trying to survive something

that smells like mold and broken promises.

So she drove —

not because she knew what Mystic Lake held,

but because with that mailbox finally down,

she could at least look forward

to the possibility

that the next place wouldn’t lie to her

or have a feral raccoon HOA.