I was eight months pregnant with twins when my husband Derek locked me inside a commercial freezer set to -50°F and told me over the intercom that the insurance would pay triple if I died by accident.

May arrived in Carroll County with an explosion of green.

The three hundred acres of timberland were alive with the sound of red-winged blackbirds, the rushing water of the creek, and the sweet, heavy scent of blooming clover filling the valley air.

On a warm Saturday afternoon, the front lawn of the old stone farmhouse was filled with people.

Long wooden tables were set up under the shade of two massive oak trees, covered in yellow tablecloths and laden with bowls of fresh potato salad, grilled chicken, and big glass pitchers of iced tea.

Mara Cruz was sitting on a porch rocker, holding Noah on her lap. The baby was nine months old now, weighing a healthy eighteen pounds, with thick black curls and big, curious blue eyes that followed every bird that flew past the porch.

In a small wooden playpen on the grass, Eli was sitting up on his own, playing with a set of bright red plastic stacking rings. He was smaller than his brother, but his cheeks were round, pink, and healthy.

ADA Eleanor Vance was sitting at one of the picnic tables, wearing a comfortable pair of linen trousers and a sunhat, laughing as Detective Miller showed her a picture of his new fishing boat.

I walked out through the screen door, carrying a large bowl of fresh strawberries from the garden.

I wore a simple white linen dress, my skin brown from working in the garden, my hair tumbling down my back in loose waves. The silver cane was gone, stored away in a closet in the hallway, no longer needed. My feet were firm on the ground.

Sam stepped up to the porch stairs, holding a pitcher of water in one hand and two glasses in the other.

"They're predicting rain for tomorrow," he said, looking up at the high, white clouds floating over the ridge.

"Let it rain," I said, sitting down on the top porch step beside him. "The clover needs it."

He looked at me, his grey eyes warm and steady in the afternoon sun. He set the glasses down and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a small, flat box wrapped in blue paper.

"What's this?" I asked, looking down at it.

"It's from the crew at the station," Sam said softly. "And from me."

I opened the paper.

Inside was a small, silver key on a leather lanyard.

"It's the original key to the old iron gate at the bottom of the lane," Sam explained. "We had it cleaned, polished, and re-keyed. We put a new brass lock on the gate this morning."

I picked up the heavy silver key, holding it in my palm. It felt solid, warm from the sun, completely real.

"Who has the other keys?" I asked.

"Just you," Sam said. "And the boys when they're old enough to drive the tractor."

I looked out over the lawn—at my sons playing under the oak trees, at Mara laughing on the porch, at the green hills stretching out as far as the eye could see under the clear blue sky.

The cold was gone.