The house smells like damp wood and failure, but I don’t let myself breathe it in too deeply. I splash cold water from the cracked sink onto my face and look over at Lily, asleep on the thin mattress, her one-eared rabbit tucked beneath her chin like it’s standing guard.

I lean close and whisper a promise I’m not yet sure how to keep.

“Today we begin,” I tell the darkness.

I grab the rusted hoe and slip my notebook into my pocket, then step outside. The ten acres stretch in every direction like something abandoned after a war. Weeds tower high enough to hide snakes. The old tobacco rows are nothing but faint scars in the earth.

But when I kneel and scoop up a handful of soil, I feel it—life.

Too compacted near the house. Sandy toward the hill. Dark and rich near the creek. It’s a map waiting to be read.

Step one: secure water.

The creek behind the property glints in the early light, but hope doesn’t irrigate crops. I find an old pipe half-buried in mud and dig around it until my fingernails crack and my palms burn. Beneath layers of dirt, I uncover a rusted valve connected to a line that once fed something larger.

I don’t know if it still works.

I twist it with both hands, muscles trembling.

Nothing.

Then suddenly, a violent cough of brown water bursts out, sputtering like it’s been asleep for years.

I laugh—loud, wild, relieved.

I run inside and gently shake Lily awake.

“Lils,” I whisper. “Come see.”

She stumbles outside, hair tangled, eyes barely open. When the pipe spits water again, she gasps and claps.

“You made a river!” she shouts.

“Our kingdom has water,” I tell her, forcing brightness into my voice.

I boil it in a dented pot until the metallic smell fades. I make oatmeal so thin it’s nearly broth and pretend it’s a feast. Lily eats slowly, watching me the way kids do when they’re afraid someone might disappear.

I swallow my portion and stand.

Step two: clear the land.

I choose a small patch by the creek. I’m twelve, not invincible. The land is bigger than my body, so I break it into pieces—like math problems.

Ten square meters.

Cut weeds. Pull roots. Stack dead plants into piles that look like grief dragged into corners. By noon, the Florida sun turns the air heavy and wet. My shirt sticks to my back. Blisters bloom across my palms.

Lily waddles over with a plastic cup of water, both hands shaking.

“I’m helping,” she insists.