The hook glints under the warmth.
My mouth goes dry.
“What would you ask?”
“Not tonight.”
“I need to know.”
“No,” she says. “Tonight you need to decide if you want your mama’s fear to be the only thing you inherit.”
The words hit hard.
Maybe too hard.
I look at the little crown.
I think of Caroline’s photo on the wall. Her wild hair. Her sharp smile. A version of my mother untouched by all the years that made her smaller. I think of Lottie showing me the crown behind her ear and asking if I was done letting men decide where I stood. I think of the sign out front. Straighten your crown before you start a war.
I think of Jeremy dead on Hell Road in Kentucky. I think of Derby sitting with me instead of telling me how to feel. I think of August laughing with kids because women with guns and scars made a place where children eat first.
“I’m grateful,” I say.
“I know.”
“I’m scared of what gratitude costs here.”
“You should be.”
Another honest answer.
“I don’t even ride a motorcycle.”
“You’ll learn quick.”
I almost laugh.
Instead, I sit on the stool beside the workbench and turn my head, lifting my hair away from my left ear.
Hot Mama’s face changes.
Only a little.
But I see it.
She puts on gloves.
“Where Lottie’s is?” she asks.
I nod.
The machine buzzes to life, small and angry.
I flinch.
Hot Mama places one hand lightly on my shoulder. “Breathe.”
“I’m breathing.”