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Then the long, shapeless years after, where he had no choice but to keep moving because Eli still needed breakfast, school uniforms, and someone to tell him the kind of lies children can survive. For two years, Jack stayed in the town where it had happened.
Then he sold the house and moved them three hours away to a quieter city where the roads didn’t feel haunted and the skyline didn’t remind him of what the mountains had taken. That had been six years ago. Long enough for life to become manageable again. Long enough for routines to settle in.
