When Wesley Pratt pulled his rental SUV onto Juniper Lane in Redwood Springs, Colorado, he felt as if the thin mountain air pressed against his chest like memory itself. Twelve years had passed since he had last driven this road, and yet the street remained almost defiantly unchanged. The houses were weathered in the charming way mountain homes often were. The trees were older, branches drooping like tired arms. A stray basketball rolled lazily across the pavement, pushed by a wind that smelled faintly of pine and nostalgia.

At the end of the street stood the Morales home. Or what was left of it. The roof sagged like a defeated shoulder. Boards had rotted through. Portions of the porch were missing as if time had taken bites from it.

Wesley stepped out of the car and hesitated. He had not even closed the door when he heard a startled voice.

“Wesley.” Juniper Morales stood in the doorway of the neighboring house, flour on her hands, apron tied tightly around her waist. Her dark hair was pinned up, though several curls had escaped, framing her face. Her eyes widened, conflicted between the instinct to smile and the instinct to shut the door. “What are you doing here?”

He swallowed. “I came to see you. And the girls. If you would let me.”

Two young voices interrupted.

“Mom, who is that?” A girl with freckles and a high ponytail tugged at Juniper’s skirt. The other, smaller and rounder in the cheeks, peeked from behind her sister.

Juniper hesitated. “Girls, this is Wesley. We… we used to know each other.”