Bridget stepped out from the shadow of the metal shed. She intentionally brought her boot down hard on the gravel. The loud crunch echoed in the tight space.

The girl listening to the poetry frowned at the interruption. She turned, saw the absolute murder in Bridget's eyes, and immediately scurried away without a word.

Kurtis turned around. When he saw Bridget-the girl who was supposed to be dying in a hospital bed-standing right in front of him, his eyes widened in panic.

He blinked rapidly. He forced his facial muscles to shift, pasting on a look of deep, agonizing concern.

Kurtis took a step forward. He reached his hand out, aiming for her shoulder, his voice dripping with fake sympathy. "Bridget, my god, are you okay?"

Bridget didn't hesitate. She swung her arm and slapped his hand away. The loud smack of flesh on flesh stung her palm, but the force made Kurtis hiss in pain.

The mask of the caring gentleman cracked. Kurtis pulled his hand back to his chest, his eyes turning dark and defensive.

Bridget didn't give him a second to speak. She held out her open palm. Her voice was flat. "The letters."

Kurtis swallowed hard. He tugged at his collar, his eyes darting around the empty space. He let out a nervous laugh and played dumb, claiming he had no idea what she meant.

The corner of Bridget's mouth curled up. She pulled out the nuclear option.

She lifted her wrist, staring at a watch she wasn't wearing. She spoke in a calm, conversational tone, delivering a complete lie.

She told Kurtis that her mother, Corda, was currently sitting in the county Sheriff's office.

She enunciated the charges perfectly: Using his status as a city volunteer to deceive and corrupt the morals of a local minor, driving her to a public suicide attempt. She asked him how the Sheriff would handle a city boy ruining a hometown girl.

The words "Sheriff" and "harassment" hit Kurtis like a freight train. All the color drained from his face, leaving him a sickly gray.

He started stuttering uncontrollably. He waved his hands, pleading that she wrote them willingly, that he never touched her.

Bridget took a step closer, invading his space. Her voice dropped to a demonic whisper. She reminded him that a local jury would always side with the hometown girl who almost drowned.

She laid out his future: The moment the Sheriff opened an investigation, his East Coast scholarship and his entire life would burn to the ground.

Beads of cold sweat broke out on Kurtis's forehead. His psychological defenses shattered under the weight of her flawless logic.

He stared at her, his chest heaving. He looked at her like she was a monster wearing a familiar face.

Kurtis spun around. He dropped to his knees and ripped open the zipper of his green canvas duffel bag sitting by the shed.

His hands shook so violently he could barely move the clothes aside. He dug frantically into the bottom.

He pulled out a thick stack of pink envelopes, tied together with a cheap red ribbon.

He scrambled to his feet. He shoved the stack into Bridget's hand like it was covered in acid.

He leaned in, his voice a pathetic, begging whisper. He pleaded with her to run and stop her mother before the cops came.

Bridget looked down. She ran her thumb over the edges, confirming the handwriting and the thickness. It was all of them.

She shoved the stack into her coat pocket. She looked up and hit him with a stare of pure, unadulterated disgust.

Without a single word, she turned her back on him and walked away.

Kurtis slumped against the metal shed. His legs gave out, and he slid down to the dirt, gasping for air, his shirt soaked in sweat.

Bridget walked out of the main gates of the camp. She took a deep breath of the pine-scented air. The heavy, suffocating weight that had lived in the original Bridget's chest completely dissolved.

She patted her pocket. It was time to burn it.

Bridget followed the dirt road back to the house. She pushed open the front door and walked straight across the living room to the cast-iron fireplace in the corner.

She pulled the two thick stacks of pink envelopes from her coat pocket. She didn't look at the words. She tossed them directly onto the glowing embers.

She grabbed the heavy iron poker. She stabbed at the charred wood, exposing the red-hot core. Flames immediately licked upward, catching the edges of the paper and turning the humiliation into black smoke.

The curtain leading to the kitchen was pushed aside. Corda walked out, carrying a plastic basin full of wet laundry. She stopped dead when she saw the fire.

Corda dropped the basin onto a chair. She rushed over to the fireplace, staring at the curling, burning letters. Her eyes filled with fresh tears.

Her voice trembled as she looked at Bridget, asking if it was really over. If she got them all.

Bridget set the iron poker down. She turned to face her mother. She looked at the deep wrinkles around Corda's eyes and gave a firm, single nod.

Bridget reached out and took Corda's rough hand. She led her to the worn sofa and pulled her down to sit. She decided to test the waters with the truth.

Bridget took a slow breath. She chose her words carefully. She told Corda that when she was under the water, something broke. She said she felt like a completely different person now.

She tried to hint that the old Bridget was dead and gone.

Corda's face twisted in agony. She gripped Bridget's hand with bone-crushing force.

Tears spilled down Corda's cheeks. She threw her arms around Bridget, pulling her into a tight, desperate hug. She sobbed, blaming herself for letting her daughter suffer so much trauma.

Bridget froze. Corda had completely misunderstood. The older woman thought the personality shift was a psychological defense mechanism-a trauma response to almost dying.

Bridget rested her chin on Corda's shoulder. The smell of cheap lye soap filled her nose. The weight of the mother's love was heavy and real.

Her analytical brain ran the simulation. Telling a poor, uneducated woman in 1978 that a soul from the future possessed her daughter would result in a trip to the psychiatric ward.

Bridget closed her eyes. She silently said her final goodbye to the girl who drowned. She accepted the misunderstanding. It was the perfect cover.

She wrapped her arms around Corda. She patted her back gently, whispering that she was fine, and that she would protect this family from now on.

Corda sniffled and pulled back. She wiped her face with her apron. She forced a smile and told Bridget to go sit on the porch and get some fresh air while she started dinner.

Bridget stood up. She walked to the front door and pushed the screen open.

The sun was setting, painting the sky a bruised orange. The cool evening breeze felt incredible against her flushed skin.

She leaned her forearms against the wooden railing. She closed her eyes, letting the quiet of the country wash over her.

The rhythmic crunch of heavy boots on gravel broke the silence.

Bridget opened her eyes. She looked toward the road. A tall man wearing a dark canvas jacket was walking past the house.

His dark hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes were dark, deep, and completely closed off to the world.

The fragmented memories snapped together. This was the volunteer who pulled her out of the lake. Drake Potts.

Drake felt the weight of her stare. He stopped walking. He turned his head and looked directly at her standing on the porch.

Their eyes locked. Bridget's heart gave a violent, uncontrollable thump against her ribs.

This wasn't the original Bridget's pathetic pining. This was a purely biological reaction-a mature woman's primal appreciation for a physically dominant, exceptionally built male.

Bridget straightened her spine. She didn't look away. She stared right back at him, her gaze bold, appreciative, and slightly predatory.

Drake saw the intensity in her eyes. A muscle ticked in his jaw. A flash of deep annoyance crossed his face.

He broke eye contact immediately. He grabbed the collar of his jacket, pulled it up against the wind, and quickened his pace, fully intending to pretend she didn't exist.

Before Bridget could open her mouth to call out to him, the screen door behind her banged open.

Corda stepped onto the porch, holding a plate of sliced bread. Her eyes instantly locked onto the tall figure on the road.

She shoved the plate onto a small table and yelled, "Mr. Potts!" She practically ran down the wooden steps.

Drake froze in his tracks. He slowly turned around. He pasted on a polite, tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. It was the smile of someone trained in high-society manners but currently miserable.

Corda reached him and grabbed his forearm. She shook it vigorously, her voice loud with gratitude, thanking him again for pulling her baby out of the water.

Drake subtly flexed his arm, smoothly pulling it out of her grip. His voice was flat and devoid of emotion. He said it was nothing, just instinct, and she didn't need to thank him.

He took a half-step backward, physically angling his body to escape down the road.

But Corda was relentless. She stepped into his path. She aggressively insisted that he come inside and eat dinner with them as a proper thank you.

Drake's brow furrowed. He glanced over Corda's shoulder, looking at Bridget on the porch, desperately searching for an excuse to leave.

Bridget leaned against the wooden post. She didn't help him. She held his gaze, a faint, amused smirk playing on her lips. She looked at him like a cat watching a mouse in a trap.

The blatant, unapologetic stare made Drake's stomach tighten with irritation. He misread her confidence as the same obsessive, clingy behavior that drove her into the lake in the first place.

Realizing Corda wasn't going to take no for an answer without causing a scene, Drake clenched his jaw. He gave a stiff, defeated nod.

Corda beamed. She ushered him up the steps. Bridget turned sideways to let him pass. As he brushed by her, the crisp, expensive scent of cedarwood soap hit her senses.

They moved into the cramped dining room. A pot of cheap beef stew and hard crusty bread sat on the table.

Drake was forced into the chair directly across from Bridget. His broad shoulders made the tiny room feel suffocatingly small.

Corda piled his bowl high with meat. Then, she made an excuse about needing a different serving spoon and practically ran into the kitchen, leaving them alone.

From the kitchen, the loud slam of a metal pot hitting the stove echoed. Brenda, the sister-in-law, was intentionally making noise, muttering curses about feeding outsiders.

Drake's eyes flicked toward the kitchen door. He instantly read the toxic financial tension in the house.

Bridget picked up her spoon. She decided to poke the bear. She used a smooth, adult tone, asking him if he was enjoying his community service at the camp.

Drake didn't look up from his bowl. He cut a piece of bread with aggressive force. He gave a single, dismissive grunt. "Fine."

Bridget raised an eyebrow. She wasn't offended. She found his icy walls incredibly interesting.

She rested her chin in her hand. She openly studied the sharp lines of his face and the long, elegant fingers gripping the cheap silverware.

Drake felt her eyes burning into him. He dropped his knife with a clatter. He looked up, his eyes blazing with cold warning. He told her to stop looking at him and to drop whatever delusions she was building in her head.

Bridget blinked, surprised by the venom. She realized he still thought she was a pathetic, love-crazed teenager.

She opened her mouth to put him in his place.

Suddenly, a violent chill ripped through her bones.

The smirk vanished from Bridget's face. She grabbed the edge of the wooden table. Her knuckles turned bone-white.

The freezing temperature of the lake water, combined with the massive adrenaline crash from fighting Julieta and Kurtis, finally caught up with her damaged body.

Drake watched her face drain of all color. He scowled, thinking she was faking an illness to get his attention. His eyes filled with disgust.

Bridget's vision violently tilted. The room spun. She opened her mouth to tell him she wasn't faking, but her vocal cords paralyzed.

A massive wave of darkness swallowed her brain. Her grip on the table failed. She pitched forward, falling face-first toward the hard wood.

In the split second before she lost consciousness, she saw the disgust on Drake's face shatter into pure panic. Drake's reflexes were inhumanly fast. He kicked his chair back violently, his large frame vaulting around the corner of the cramped table in a blur. Just a fraction of a second before her forehead could smash into the hard wood, his strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her safely into his solid chest.