Chapter 6 Finding The Rhythm

Wesmere had its own kind of morning: blue-skied, bird-laced, and deceptively quiet—until a six-year-old screamed bloody murder because he didn't want oatmeal.

Ezra wiped sweat off his brow and surveyed the field behind the house, where overgrown grass had once reached his knees.

He'd spent the bet...

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