I stood on the porch of our farmhouse, the wind carrying the scent of dry corn and distant rain. Behind me, the Thanksgiving table was set—crisp linens, my mother’s best china, the golden turkey steaming under foil. Inside, laughter flickered, tentative but real. Crawl sat at the head, wearing Dad’s old flannel, his hands rough from work but his eyes soft when they met mine.

He had saved Grandpa’s life. Earned Zack’s hero worship. Even Mom smiled more now.

And me? I had cut my hair, changed my clothes, lied to everyone.

'You gonna stand out here all night?' Crawl stepped onto the porch, zipping his jacket against the chill.

'I don’t know what happens after this,' I said. 'After the lie ends.'

He stepped closer. 'Maybe the lie was just the beginning of something real.'

Inside, Dad called for the turkey. For the first time, he was asking Crawl to cut it.

I could tell the truth now. Or let the moment speak for itself.