The fire has burned down to amber coals. Somewhere out on the plains, a coyote calls and goes quiet. Pa has been gone three months. Ma sold the house, the furniture, almost everything. Now there is only the wagon, the oxen, and the land Pa never got to see. Mary hums low near the fire, her hands still busy even at this hour. Willa is pressed warm against your side, one finger tracing shapes across the dark sky she's decided to name herself. The grief is there. It lives in the silences, in the way Ma sometimes stops humming mid-note. But tonight the stars are very close, and the three of you are still here. Oregon is somewhere ahead. For now, there is only the fire.