Maya heard the crunch of gravel before she saw the police car roll slowly up her driveway. She was on her knees in the garden, hands deep in soil, already knowing what this visit meant. Some things were inevitable, like autumn following summer, or old debts finding their way back to your door.
The officer stepped out holding a folded document. "Ms. Reyes? We have a warrant to search the premises."
She pulled off her gardening gloves and stood, brushing dirt from her jeans. "I know," she said quietly.
He looked past her at the small house — more of a hovel, really, with its peeling paint and sagging porch — and then back at her face, searching for hostility. He found none.
"My brother stored things here," Maya explained. "I told him not to. I should have pushed harder."
The officer nodded. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience."
She almost laughed. Inconvenience. As if her brother's choices hadn't already managed to compound every difficulty she'd spent three years quietly climbing out of. The court dates would follow, then the questions from neighbors, then the whispers at her waitressing job. One person's carelessness, layered onto another, and another, until the weight became almost architectural.
Still, she held the door open for the officers and put the kettle on. There was nothing left to do but be steady. The garden was half-planted, the afternoon light was gentle, and somewhere beneath all of this, her ordinary life was still waiting for her to return to it.