The house wasn't new.
It wasn't even trying to look new.
It sat at the edge of Cedar Ridge like it had been there first and the town had slowly formed around it—two stories, pale siding, a porch that creaked like it had opinions, and a yard that was more "wild grass and stubborn weeds" than lawn. Pines fenced the property in the distance, and the air smelled like sun-warmed wood and something mineral, like the ground had its own personality.
Sol stood in the driveway while his parents argued gently about where the couch should go, and he tried to tell his chest to stop doing that tight thing.
This was real. He lived here now.
His hoodie from yesterday was tossed over a box in the living room, and he'd changed as soon as they'd arrived—partly because the house was warm inside, partly because he wanted the feeling of a reset. Now he wore a navy T-shirt under a gray flannel left open, dark jeans, and the same sneakers, though he had a sinking suspicion they were about to become an endangered species in Montana. His black watch sat on his wrist like an anchor.
His mom had already claimed the kitchen like a general taking a city. She wore black leggings and an oversized cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up, hoop earrings still in place like she refused to surrender style to cardboard boxes. His dad was in faded jeans and a plain charcoal tee, hair neat, expression steady, the kind of calm that made you feel like problems were just objects you picked up and moved.
"Sol," his mom called from the kitchen, "if you disappear into your room for six hours, I will find you."
"I'm not disappearing," Sol said, even though he was absolutely considering it.
His dad glanced over. "She means it."
Sol lifted both hands in surrender. "I hear you."
A truck crunched into the gravel.
Wade.
Of course.
Wade's pickup looked like it could survive a meteor strike. The paint was sun-faded, the tires were half a foot taller than Sol's self-esteem, and the bed already had straps and a toolbox like it lived for chores. He climbed out in a denim shirt, sleeves rolled, cap low, and gave the house a long look.
"Still standing," he said, like he'd personally fought to keep it upright.
Sol's dad laughed. "Appreciate you coming."
Wade waved it off. "Y'all are family. Besides, moving's the best kind of suffering. Builds character."
Sol muttered, "I have enough character."
Wade heard him anyway and grinned. "That's the spirit."
They got to work.
Boxes moved from SUV to porch to living room like a slow parade of their old life. Wade lifted things like gravity was optional. Sol tried to match pace without looking like he was trying. His dad moved efficiently—no wasted steps, no extra motion. Marine brain, Sol thought, watching him. Everything had a place, even in chaos.
A neighbor wandered over mid-haul, drawn by the sound of people doing something.
He was older, gray mustache, belly like he'd made peace with food, wearing a worn brown jacket and a baseball cap that had been washed so many times the logo was a ghost. He leaned on the fence like he'd been invited.
"New folks?" he asked, though his tone made it clear he already knew.
Wade nodded. "Carths. From Texas."
The neighbor's gaze slid to Sol and stuck there for half a second longer than polite.
"Texas," the man repeated, like it was a flavor. "Y'all bring the heat with you?"
Sol kept his face neutral, then let a small smile happen. "I left it at the border."
The neighbor snorted, pleased. "Good answer." He pointed a thumb toward the treeline. "I'm Clay. Two houses down. If you hear coyotes at night, don't panic. If you hear something that sounds like a woman screaming… also don't panic. That's probably still a coyote."
Sol blinked. "That's comforting."
Clay shrugged. "We do what we can."
His mom appeared on the porch, wiping her hands on a dish towel like she'd been summoned by the word new. "Hi! I'm Nia."
Clay's face softened in that automatic way people did around moms. "Welcome. If you need anything, you ask Wade. He'll complain, but he'll do it."
Wade pointed at Clay. "That's slander."
Clay waved and wandered back to his property like he'd completed his daily social quota.
Sol watched him go. Everybody really does just… walk up, he thought. No text first. No "hey are you free." Just footsteps and conversation.
It was unsettling.
And, annoyingly, kind of nice.
---
Around noon, when their arms had that dull ache from lifting too much and pretending it wasn't heavy, Wade clapped his hands.
"Alright," he declared. "We need supplies. Also, you need boots."
Sol glanced down at his sneakers. "I have shoes."
Wade gave him a look like Sol had said he didn't believe in winter. "You have city slippers."
His dad's mouth twitched. "He'll learn."
Sol tried to sound confident. "I can handle cold."
Wade's grin widened. "Montana cold is personal."
They drove into town in Wade's pickup—Sol in the passenger seat, his dad in the back because Wade insisted, "Front's for the new kid, let him see what he's getting into." Sol didn't argue. The truck smelled like pine air freshener, old leather, and the faint ghost of gasoline.
They stopped at the hardware store first, because apparently in Cedar Ridge the hardware store was a social club disguised as a place to buy nails.
Inside, two men argued about chainsaw brands like it was politics. A woman in a Carhartt jacket stood at the counter with a list in her hand, calm and patient like she'd done this a hundred times. A kid about Sol's age walked out carrying a bag of feed on his shoulder like it weighed nothing.
Sol's dad bought a snow shovel even though it was still late summer.
Sol stared at it. "Is that… optimism?"
His dad replied, dead serious, "That's preparation."
Wade slapped Sol lightly on the back. "You'll thank him. Or you'll be buried in your driveway and we'll laugh."
"That's… not reassuring," Sol said.
"It's truthful," Wade corrected.
As they stepped back out into the bright afternoon, Sol heard a familiar laugh—high, fast, like someone tossing a handful of marbles down a hallway.
Kaylee.
She was across the street by the diner, walking with a light bounce, a paper bag in her hand like it contained something extremely important. Her outfit had changed from yesterday—today she wore a striped long-sleeve shirt under a denim jacket, black leggings, and sneakers with colorful laces. Her hair was half-up again, clipped with a bright little plastic butterfly like she'd decided seriousness was optional.
She spotted Sol and immediately made a face like she'd discovered a rare animal.
"Texas!" she called, loud enough that two people on the sidewalk turned.
Sol stopped instinctively, the way you stop when someone yells your nickname in public and you aren't sure if it's affectionate or a warning.
Kaylee jogged over, grinning. "You survived your first night?"
"I've been here less than twenty-four hours," Sol said.
"And yet you're already buying winter supplies," she said, peering at the snow shovel as if it was a betrayal. "Wow. You're adapting. I'm proud of you."
Wade leaned down slightly, stage-whispering to Sol's dad, "Told you. Loudest kid in school."
Kaylee looked at Wade like he'd just insulted her religion. "Excuse you, I am not loud. I am audibly enthusiastic."
Sol's dad chuckled. "Nice to meet you."
Kaylee's smile turned polite for exactly one second. "Hi! You must be Sol's dad. He has your 'I'm judging your life choices' face."
Sol stared at her. "What face?"
Kaylee pointed at him. "That one. That exact one."
His dad laughed outright, and Sol felt an irrational spark of gratitude. If his dad could laugh here—easy, genuine—then maybe Sol could breathe.
Kaylee swung the paper bag slightly. "I brought you something."
Sol looked wary. "Why?"
"Because you're new," she said, like it was obvious. "And because this town will eat you alive if you don't get the rules."
Wade snorted. "She thinks she runs the place."
Kaylee widened her eyes innocently. "I don't think. I know."
She shoved the bag into Sol's hands. It was warm.
Sol opened it carefully and found a stack of flyers and a wrapped cinnamon roll the size of his fist.
On top of the flyers, in thick black marker, was written:
CEDAR RIDGE SURVIVAL GUIDE (UNOFFICIAL)
BY KAYLEE ROURKE (LOCAL LEGEND)
Sol looked up. "This is a lot."
Kaylee shrugged. "I'm generous."
He flipped the first page and saw bullet points.
Do not call it "cute" when a moose is nearby.
If Ruth at the diner threatens you, she likes you.
If you do something embarrassing, accept it. The town already knows.
Winter is not a season. It is an event.
Don't date people for drama. Drama is a full-time job here.
Sol's mouth twitched. "This is… actually helpful."
Kaylee beamed. "I know."
Sol held up the cinnamon roll. "And this?"
"That's a bribe," she said brightly. "So you don't hate us."
"I wasn't planning on hating anyone," Sol said.
Kaylee leaned closer, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. "Careful. That's how it starts."
Sol blinked. "How what starts?"
She straightened, smile returning. "Belonging."
Then she pointed at the flannel Sol wore. "Also, good choice. You're slowly becoming one of us."
Sol looked down at himself. "It's a flannel."
Kaylee nodded like he'd passed a test. "Exactly."
She stepped back, eyes flicking briefly to Wade and Sol's dad. "Anyway, welcome. I'll see you at school."
Sol held up the papers. "How do you know I'm going?"
Kaylee stared at him like he'd asked if the sun was optional. "Because you live here now, Texas."
She started walking away, then spun around mid-step. "Oh! One more thing."
Sol sighed, but it wasn't annoyed. Not really. "What?"
Kaylee pointed at the snow shovel. "Get two."
Then she vanished into the diner like she owned it.
Sol watched her go, cinnamon roll still warm in his hands, and realized he was smiling.
He hated that.
He also didn't stop.
---
They stopped for gas on the way back out of habit, and Sol learned very quickly that small-town gas stations were not just gas stations.
They were meeting places.
Two trucks were already parked there. A couple of teenagers leaned against one of them like it was a throne. A radio played faintly from someone's open window—country music with more heart than melody.
One of the guys—tall, broad, ball cap low—looked up when Wade's truck pulled in. His gaze drifted past Wade and landed on Sol with the slow, deliberate interest of someone looking for a reason.
Sol didn't stare back. He glanced, noted, then looked away. His dad had taught him that you didn't have to act intimidated to avoid a fight. Sometimes you avoided a fight by not offering ego as bait.
Wade hopped out, waved at the teens casually. "Afternoon."
"Hey, Wade," one of them replied.
The tall one didn't speak. He just watched.
Sol got out on the passenger side, stretching his shoulders. His sneakers crunched on gravel. He adjusted his flannel automatically, and his fingers brushed the watch on his wrist.
The tall teen's eyes flicked to the watch, then to Sol's face.
"You're the Texas kid," he said finally.
It wasn't a question.
Sol kept his tone neutral. "Seems like it."
The teen's mouth curved, not friendly. "You gonna talk like a cowboy too?"
Sol's dad was at the pump now, but Sol could feel his presence like a shadow—alert without hovering.
Wade answered before Sol could, voice easy but sharp underneath. "Don't start, Braden."
Braden's eyes didn't leave Sol. "I'm not starting anything."
Sol nodded once, like he agreed. "Good."
Braden blinked, as if he hadn't expected the answer to be that simple. "You think you're tough?"
Sol exhaled slowly through his nose, the way he did before sparring. Don't let pride drive, his dad always said. Pride gets you shot or arrested.
"I think I'm trying to get home," Sol said. "You need something?"
Braden's jaw tightened. "You got an attitude."
Sol shrugged, small. "I got a long day."
One of the other teens snorted a laugh, like that was funnier than he meant it to be.
Braden stepped closer half a pace. Not enough to be a threat. Enough to try to make Sol feel it.
Sol didn't move back.
He didn't move forward either.
He just stood, weight balanced, shoulders loose, hands visible.
Braden's eyes narrowed, searching for fear.
Sol didn't give him any.
From the other side of the lot, someone spoke up—female voice, calm and flat.
"Braden."
Sol turned his head slightly and saw Sierra.
She was leaning against her own car near the far pump, arms crossed. Today she wore a fitted dark athletic top and charcoal joggers, hair pulled into a high puff. Her small hoops caught the sun when she tilted her head. Her expression wasn't angry.
It was disappointed.
Braden's posture changed instantly, like he'd been caught doing something stupid in front of someone whose opinion mattered.
"I wasn't—" he started.
Sierra didn't change her tone. "Leave him alone."
Braden scoffed, but he stepped back. "Whatever."
Sierra's gaze moved briefly to Sol—quick, assessing—then away, as if she'd done her part and wasn't going to make it a bigger deal.
Sol didn't say thank you out loud. Not yet. He filed it away.
Braden climbed into his truck, peeling out of the lot with an unnecessary spray of gravel like drama was oxygen.
Wade shook his head. "Kid's an idiot."
Sol kept his voice mild. "He seems bored."
"That's exactly it," Wade said. "Bored and convinced it's everyone else's job to entertain him."
Sol's dad finished pumping gas, eyes steady. "You handled it fine."
Sol glanced at him. "I didn't do anything."
His dad nodded once, approving. "Exactly."
Sierra pushed off her car and walked inside the station without looking at Sol again, but as she passed, she said—quiet enough that it was just for him—
"Don't let him pull you into something stupid."
Sol's eyebrows lifted slightly. "I wasn't planning on it."
Sierra paused half a second, like she was deciding if she believed him, then continued inside.
Sol watched the door swing closed behind her and felt something settle.
Not comfort.
A kind of recognition.
She pays attention, he thought. Not to show off. To judge.
He respected that.
---
Back at the house, unloading resumed until the sun started to tilt, and the air cooled like someone turned down a dial.
Wade left them with a parting promise—"We're having y'all over this weekend, and don't argue, it's not a question"—and Sol's parents resumed the slow work of turning boxes into rooms.
Sol carried a box into what would be his bedroom.
The room was plain: beige walls, a window that looked out onto pine trees and an uneven yard, a closet door that stuck slightly. The kind of room that could belong to anyone until you made it yours.
He set the box down and sat on the edge of the mattress that was still missing sheets.
For a second, the quiet hit him.
No friends nearby. No familiar streets. No Texas heat. No old routine.
Just pine air and the faint sound of his parents talking downstairs.
His phone buzzed.
Sol blinked at it, surprised. The screen lit up… then immediately tried to die again. One bar.
A text came through anyway, like the universe wanted to prove it still worked sometimes.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: you alive texas?
UNKNOWN NUMBER: also u owe me feedback on my survival guide
UNKNOWN NUMBER: diner at 6. milkshakes. bring your emotional support flannel.
Sol stared at it.
Then he smiled again, uninvited.
He typed back, thumbs moving fast.
SOL: Who is this
SOL: actually nvm it's obviously Kaylee
SOL: do you always talk like you're narrating a sitcom
The reply came instantly.
KAYLEE: yes
KAYLEE: also pls wear something warm cedar ridge gets cold when the sun leaves
KAYLEE: and don't bring your dad unless he wants to fight ruth for my fries
Sol huffed a laugh, quiet, and shook his head.
Downstairs, his mom called, "Sol! Come eat!"
"Coming!" he answered, then looked at the text one more time like it was a tiny lifeline.
He wasn't home.
But the town was already tugging on him—one flyer, one cinnamon roll, one loud girl at a time.
Sol stood, grabbed his hoodie from the box in the hall, then paused.
He didn't put it on.
He chose the flannel again.
Not because he wanted to "become one of them."
Because it was warm, and it felt like armor without being a costume.
He headed downstairs.
And for the first time since they crossed the Montana line, he caught himself thinking it without forcing it:
Maybe this won't be all bad.
Not if he kept moving the right way.
Not if he kept choosing calm over pride.
And not if Kaylee Rourke was serious about milkshakes.
Because if this town ran on face-to-face time instead of Wi-Fi…
Then showing up might be the only way to survive.
And Sol—quiet Texas kid with too many boxes and not enough boots—was starting to understand something simple and dangerous:
In Cedar Ridge, your life happened in public.
Whether you were ready or not.