The ground is frozen under my knees, my breath ragged clouds in the dark. I’m clawing at the earth near Mom’s stone, whispering Susan’s name like a prayer. "I’m here, baby, I’m here." But she’s not. Again. The caseworker said I could visit only if I stayed sober for thirty days—today’s day twenty-nine. My hands shake. Not from cold. From the text I got an hour ago: William has a score. One last win, triple or nothing.

I press my forehead to the frostbitten grass. Susan drew me a picture last week—stick-figure me and her, under a rainbow. No fire. No tears. Just us.

My phone buzzes again. They’re waiting. One bet. I could win enough to rent a real apartment, impress the court, prove I can provide.

But if I lose… I lose her for good.