Lonerock.
The word appears on a green road sign near sunset.
I sit up straighter.
August leans forward against his seat belt. “Is that it?”
“Almost,” Lottie says.
My hands go cold.
Home.
Not home.
A place before Kentucky. Before Paducah. Before Jeremy. Before Derby. Before I knew men could turn houses into cages and bikers could hand you keys.
The road into Lonerock curves past scrub, rock outcroppings, scattered pines, and land that looks too stubborn to be pretty for people who need obvious beauty. There are oldtrailers, a gas station with faded pumps, a tiny market, a bar with motorcycles out front, and then a road branching toward darker trees.
Lottie turns there.
A wooden sign rises ahead between two posts made from stripped logs.
The letters are carved deep and painted black.
QUEENS OF ANARCHY MC
Under it, smaller words:
Straighten Your Crown Before You Start A War
My mouth goes dry.
Lottie slows but doesn’t stop.
Beyond the sign, the road opens into a campground spread through the trees. Cabins. Bunkhouses. A communal building with warm light in the windows. A garage with bikes lined in front. Laundry strung between posts. Kids running near a fire circle under the watch of women in leather cuts. A dog barks once, then stops like someone told it not to waste energy.
It looks like summer camp.
If summer camp kept shotguns by the kitchen door and patched women on every porch.
August presses his face to the window. “There are kids.”
Relief hits me so hard I almost sob.
There are kids.
A little girl with braids chases a boy with a foam sword. Two toddlers sit in a dirt patch with toy trucks. An older childhelps a younger one carry a plate toward the main building. They are laughing. Dirty. Loud. Alive.
August’s whole body leans toward them.
For the first time since Derby’s porch, something in me unclenches.
Only a little.
Enough to hurt.
Women turn as the SUV rolls in. They watch us without pretending not to. Some wear Queens cuts. Some don’t. Some have tattoos. Some have scars. One has a baby on her hip and a pistol at her thigh. Another is barefoot in the dirt, smoking a cigarette beside a motorcycle while a small boy climbs on her back like she is playground equipment.