“When she was with Mike?”
Hot Mama looks toward the trees for a second. “Among other disasters.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means stories got order, and yours ain’t ready for that one.”
I bristle. “I have had enough people deciding what I’m ready for.”
Her smile vanishes.
Not in anger.
In respect.
“Well, there she is.” She points one red nail at me. “Good. Keep that. But learn the difference between a woman hiding truth to control you and a woman placing knives on the table one at a time so you don’t cut yourself grabbing all of them.”
I don’t have an answer.
Lottie smirks. “Told you she does that.”
“Does what?” I ask.
“Sounds like a fortune cookie got into a bar fight and won.”
Hot Mama throws back her head and laughs.
The sound rolls across the campground, and several women look over, smiling like thunder just told a joke.
“Come on,” Hot Mama says. “Let me show you where you’ll sleep before Sagebrush gets her hands on you and tries to steam your trauma out your pores.”
“Steam my what?”
“Exactly.”
She turns and walks toward the main building, expecting us to follow.
We do.
As we cross the yard, I take in the place piece by piece because looking keeps me from falling apart. A bulletin board near the kitchen lists chores, meal times, group meetings, court dates, doctor appointments, and motorcycle maintenance classes. Next to it is a hand-lettered flyer for something calledRage Yoga and Release Screaming. Another advertises Intro to Self Defense: Knees, Keys, and Creative Swearing.
Under the pavilion, two women sort donations into bins. Clothes. Shoes. Diapers. Toys. One of them has a healing black eye and a baby in a sling. The other has a scar down her forearm and a Queens cut over a sundress. They talk softly until we pass, then the woman with the baby looks at me and nods.
No pity.
Just recognition.
The main building is warm inside and smells like chili, coffee, wood smoke, and lemon cleaner. The floor is scuffed but swept. The walls are covered in photos. Women on motorcycles. Kids at campfires. A group standing under the Queens sign, arms around each other, middle fingers up. A Polaroid of Hot Mama wearing a crown made of beer tabs. Another of Lottie years younger, laughing beside a woman I don’t know.
I stop at that one.
Lottie notices.
“Don’t,” she says.
“Is that my mother?”
The room goes quiet around the question.