Another gust slammed into the window, rattling it so hard she flinched. That noise jolted something inside her. This wasn’t about plans anymore—it was about urgency. She didn’t have the luxury of second-guessing herself. She turned from the window and marched to the kitchen without another thought.
She opened the fridge with trembling fingers, pulled out a slab of steak wrapped in butcher’s paper. It was meant for a Sunday dinner she never got around to making. Maya tore it open and slapped it into a plate.
Then she slipped into her bedroom and threw open the closet. Her old rain poncho, dusty but intact, came down from its hanger. She forced her rain boots on, her knees aching, breath quick and shallow.
She pulled on two pairs of gardening gloves, stiff from disuse. She picked up the plate of steak, wrapping the piece tightly in foil, and steeled her nerves to face whatever was to come. Her heart beat fast now—not from panic, but from something steadier. This was it. No more halfway measures.