Kaitlynn and her two children

Over the next two days, Kaitlynn threw herself into the work with a ferocity that surprised even herself. She used the wood she had chopped to board up the broken window and reinforce the front door. She patched the hole in the roof with scrap metal and tar she found in the shed. Cason and Paige watched her, their eyes wide. They had never seen their mother like this. She was a whirlwind, a force of nature. She didn't complain, didn't rest. She just worked until the job was done. The house was still a shack, but it was a secure shack. It felt like a home again. The boy in the bed slept through most of it. Kaitlynn checked on him every few hours, changing his IV, sponging the sweat from his forehead. He mumbled in his sleep, words in a language she didn't understand. Spanish, maybe. Or something Eastern European. But on the third morning, reality came crashing back. Kaitlynn opened the cupboard and stared at the single can of beans sitting on the shelf. That was it. That was all the food left in the house. She had a roof over her head, but her children were starving. She sat down at the kitchen table and buried her face in her hands. She was a DEA agent. She could shoot, fight, and outsmart drug lords. But she couldn't feed her kids with fists and guns. She needed money. Fast.$200 wasn't enough to support her and her two children. She ran through her options. She couldn't get a job in town; the nearest factory was thirty miles away, and she didn't have a car. She couldn't rely on the charity of Dr. Brennan forever. She thought about the original Kaitlynn. What had she been good at? The memories surfaced slowly. Baking. The old Kaitlynn had been a decent baker. She made pies for the church socials, for the school bake sales. They were simple, old-fashioned recipes-apple, cherry, pecan. But Kaitlynn Bruce had a different palate. She had traveled the world with the DEA. She had eaten in five-star restaurants in Paris, street stalls in Bangkok. She knew flavors that the people of Sweetwater Creek had never even dreamed of. She could make pies. But not just any pies. Gourmet pies. Pies that would blow this town's mind. The idea was solid, but the execution was the problem. She needed ingredients. Good ingredients. Butter, not shortening. Fresh fruit, not canned. And she needed money to buy them. She thought of Dr. Brennan again. She hated to ask for more help, but she didn't have a choice. "Cason," she said, pulling on her coat. "I'm going to the clinic. You're in charge. Keep an eye on our guest." Cason nodded, his eyes flicking to the bedroom door. "I will." Kaitlynn took Paige's hand and walked to town. The clinic was quiet when they arrived. Dr. Brennan was in his office, reading a journal. "Doctor," Kaitlynn said, knocking on the open door. "The boy is doing well. His fever is down." Brennan smiled. "That's good news. You have a healing touch, Kaitlynn." She shifted uncomfortably. "Doctor, I... I have a favor to ask." "Name it." "I want to start a business," she said, the words coming out in a rush. "Baking pies. I want to sell them at the county market this weekend. But I'm a little short on supplies. I was wondering if I could maybe... buy some flour and sugar from you on credit? I'll pay you back as soon as I make some sales." Brennan leaned back in his chair, studying her face. Then, a slow smile spread across his features. "Nonsense," he said. "You won't be buying anything from me." Kaitlynn's heart sank. "I understand if-" "I mean," Brennan interrupted, standing up, "you won't be paying for it. Come with me." He led her out the back door of the clinic, into a sprawling backyard. Kaitlynn stopped, her eyes widening. The garden was a masterpiece. Rows of vibrant vegetables, lush herbs, and fruit trees heavy with produce. It was an oasis of green in the dusty town. "My wife, God rest her soul, she was the gardener," Brennan said, a hint of sadness in his voice. "I just maintain it now. But I can't keep up. The fruit just rots on the trees." He pointed to a row of bushes. "Those blueberries are going crazy this year. And the strawberries. And the apples are just about ready." He turned to her. "Take what you need, Kaitlynn. Consider it payment for saving that boy's life. On one condition," he added, a weary but kind look in his eyes. "I need help keeping it up. My back isn't what it used to be. You help me with the weeding and pruning once a week, and the harvest is yours. And I'll have Silas bring over some flour and sugar from the pantry." Kaitlynn stared at him, overwhelmed. "Doctor, I can't-" "You can, and you will." He patted her shoulder. "Now go pick some fruit. I expect a taste of those famous pies when they're done." Kaitlynn didn't argue. She grabbed two large baskets from the shed and set to work. Paige ran between the rows, her face smeared with strawberry juice, giggling as she chased a butterfly. Kaitlynn picked the biggest, ripest blueberries she could find. She selected crisp, green apples. She snipped sprigs of fresh rosemary and basil. Her mind was already racing, combining flavors, adjusting recipes. She carried the heavy baskets back to the house, her arms aching but her heart light. She had the ingredients. She had the knowledge. Now she just had to make it work. When she walked through the door, she found Cason sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a damp cloth to the unconscious boy's forehead. The boy's eyes were still closed, but his breathing was easier. Cason looked up at her, his expression unreadable. But there was something soft in his eyes, something that looked almost like concern. "He moved his hand," Cason said quietly. "I thought he was waking up." Kaitlynn felt a swell of pride. Her son, the future monster, was showing compassion. It was a small thing, but it was a start. "Good job," she said. "Keep watching him." She set the baskets on the kitchen table and began to work. She washed the fruit, peeled the apples, mixed the dough. She moved with a confidence and precision that the old Kaitlynn had never possessed. She rolled out the crust, her hands moving automatically. She sprinkled a pinch of rosemary into the apple filling, a handful of torn basil leaves into the blueberry. The aromas filled the tiny kitchen, exotic and intoxicating. She slid the pies into the oven and set the timer. Then she sat down at the table and waited. The smell that filled the house was incredible. It was sweet, savory, and completely foreign. It smelled like hope.