More than his elbow had shattered the night he’d fallen down the stairs. His dreams, every one that really mattered, shattered with it.

He hadn’t given them up, not right away. He’d dealt with the surgery, the recovery time, the physical therapy. When Dr. Marshall gave him the go-ahead, he started lifting again.

He built back the muscles, but he couldn’t build back the full range of motion. Not what was needed to wing a ball from the hole to first, not in the majors.

Not even, he had to accept, in college ball.

All he’d ever wanted, for as long as he could remember—the one thing he was really good at and loved right down to his bones—poof. Over.

He’d even broken down in therapy over it—embarrassing. But Dr. Demar had understood, or seemed to. He didn’t have to just get over it, like boom, oh well. He was allowed to be sad, to be angry.

Since he was both already, he didn’t need permission. But it helped to have it. It helped that Emily didn’t nag at him to stop sulking or bitching. And Dave let him sweat it out, or vent. And Lee—who knew Lee and Emily would, you know. Lee dug on baseball almost as much as Zane, could talk statistics, had a pretty good arm himself. He’d played right field with the cops back in Asheville.

He moved through it, though he often stretched out on his bed with a ball in his hand, rubbing the stitching.

He knew he needed a new plan, but it was hard to see past the shards of his dream. Still, he had to consider his options because college loomed.

Where it once represented freedom, college now stood vague and cloudy—a path cloaked in shadows, riddled with pits.

Medicine, never. Even though he admired Dave and his work as an EMT, he’d never go near being a doctor.

His grades would help him get into a good school. Maybe part of pushing himself there came from residual fear, but good, solid grades helped. When he thought about it, he guessed he liked his lit and history classes best. But where did that get him?

He didn’t want to teach. Serious gak on that. He could write okay, but didn’t want to try to go there either.

Military? No way. He already felt he’d lived his life regimented, under orders, in fricking uniform.

His thumb and fingers stroked the stitching on the ball, slowly caressing the waxed red thread.

He thought being a cop might be cool. Lee was cool, and he’d like, a lot, putting bad guys away. Without Lee, who knew if Graham would be behind bars? He wanted to put people like Graham behind bars.

So … maybe.

He started reading books about criminal justice and law and how it all worked. He had a lot of firsthand experience on that, too. The more he read, the more he thought while stretched out on his bed rubbing the stitching on his baseball, the more he began to see a path—not so shadowed and pitted.

Not just a path, he decided. A purpose.

He spent a lot of time working out the best way to hike the path, to reach the goal. He wanted a map of the twists, turns, potential pitfalls before he talked about it.

Talking about it made it real. If he made this his hope—no more dreams, but hope he could maybe handle. But if that cracked, he didn’t know what the hell he’d do.

He took a chance, gathered up that hope, and walked downstairs. Britt had some after-school deal, and Lee would pick her up at the end of his shift. So for now, it was just Emily, and that’s where he wanted to start.

She had something simmering on the stove that smelled like comfort on a cool rainy night. While its warmth drenched the air and that rain pattered outside, she sat at the counter with her laptop.

She looked so happy. Happy just shined over her like light. That was Lee, he supposed, because they fit together like they’d always been. He didn’t know what to make of it, exactly. His parents had fit—rough, jagged, shiny pieces all dark and gritty underneath. But his aunt and Lee? That fit smooth and easy so the whole house worked like the stew on the stove. A comfort.

He’d owe them both for the rest of his life.

She looked up when he came all the way in, that happy all over her. Even as she beamed a smile at him, she flushed a little, closed the laptop in a way he recognized.

Secrets.

“Hey, pal, how’s it going?”

“Okay. That smells really good.”

“Chicken stew. Gonna make some dumplings to top it off. I had a yen.”

“Do you need some help?”

“Not yet, but maybe at dumpling time. Something’s on your mind. Sit down, let me have it.”

He knew she meant it, knew she really wanted to know, knew she’d listen. And still nerves jittered up his back.

“Well, okay. Here’s the thing.” He sat, shifted, forgot his pitch altogether. “I’ve been thinking about college.”

Was it relief he saw rush over her face; support he felt when her hand covered his and squeezed?

“That’s good, Zane. What are you thinking?”

“My grades are good.”

“They’re several degrees up from good. They’re stellar.” When he hesitated, she gave his hand another squeeze. “Let’s just put this out there. I know, I really know, how hard it is for you to lose the dream of playing pro ball. The doctor said you could try college ball, so—”

“I’d be second-rate.”

“Oh, Zane, you’re so hard on yourself.”

“I’d never be good enough, that’s just how it is. And I couldn’t take not being good enough.”

It hurt, more than he could tell her, to think of it.

“I have to put it away. I’ve thought about other things. You know they expected me to be a doctor.”

“It’s not about what they expected, ever again. It’s about what you want. And what you want, Zane, I’m going to want for you.”

“I don’t want to be a doctor. I wondered about other stuff, but nothing really hit.”

“You don’t have to decide. College is about exploration, too.”

“But I did decide. I … I want to go to law school. First you have to get the BA, and that takes like two and a half to four years, then it’s law school, and that’s another three.”

She sat back, studying him—very carefully. “You want to study law, be a lawyer?”

“Yeah.” And now that he’d said it, it was real. “I want to try. English and history are my best things, and that’s a good foundation for it. I took that political science deal, and I was okay there. UVA—University of Virginia—it’s in Charlottesville. That’s only about three hundred and fifty miles away, so I could come home for stuff. And it’s a good school for the foundation again. If I can get in.”

“You’ve spent some time on this,” she acknowledged.

“I needed to find out if I could make it work.”

“First thing.” She lifted her fingers, tapped them at her eyes. “Look right here. Is it what you want? Nothing else but that. What you want.”

Man, he loved her, because he knew, bottom line, she meant just that. What he wanted.

“It really is. I mean, it’s what I want to try. I want to be a prosecutor. I thought about cop, but it doesn’t feel right. This does.”

“Zane, this is great.” Because he looked in her eyes, he saw the glimmer of tears. “You’ll be great. A lawyer. My granddaddy was a lawyer. Town lawyer right here in Lakeview.”

“Yeah, I guess I knew. There are a lot of scholarships I can try for, and I can get a part-time job now to start saving. Then there are student loans and all that. And I can work in college. It could take seven years, then I’d have to pass the bar. Sometimes you can get a clerkship, like with a firm or a judge, and if I can work summer courses or programs, I can maybe cut it down a year. Still—”

“Let’s backtrack.” Leaning forward, she brushed at the hair he’d let grow out. Dark as her own, it curled a bit around his face, over his collar. “Are you under the impression you have to pay for your education?”

“They’re never going to turn over the college fund, and I don’t want their money, even if we could make them. I can’t take money from you. I just can’t.”

Now she sat back, crossed her arms. “You think you can stop me from helping you?”

“You help me every day.”

She uncrossed her arms, took his face in her hands. “You need to stop worrying about this. Your grandparents already intend to pay for college for you and Britt.” She shot up a finger to stop him before he could object. “That’s what family does. We didn’t tell you because it felt like pressure. What if you decided not to go to college, or take a gap year, or go to trade school? Now you’ve decided what you want. You’ll call them, tell them. And you’ll thank them.”

She sat back again. “That said, I’m not saying you shouldn’t work, pay some of your expenses. That’s responsibility. You can work for me like you did over the summer, or do something else. As long as it doesn’t interfere with school.”

“It could take seven years. It could cost—”

She tapped a finger on his lips. “Stop. It’s loving and generous of them, and that you’ll remember. They not only can afford to do it, but part of them needs to. You’ll let them, you’ll give this to them.”