Jake’s POV
The camp becomes real on a Wednesday afternoon when the first major donor commits.
I take the call in Adison's office—our office now, a corner she carved out for me when the planning outgrew our kitchen table and started colonizing every flat surface in the apartment. She's in a board meeting three floors down, which means I'm alone when the foundation director's voice comes through the phone and rearranges the shape of my future.
"We've reviewed your proposal thoroughly, Mr. Sullivan. The board met this morning, and I'm pleased to tell you we'd like to fund twenty scholarships for your inaugural summer program."
I grip the edge of the desk, needing something solid while numbers wash over me. Twenty scholarships. Full ride—transportation from wherever these kids live, housing in the bunkhouse Tommy and I have been renovating, meals prepared by staff I haven't hired yet, equipment they'll need to learn everything I want to teach them.
"That's... that's incredible." My voice comes out rougher than I intended, carrying emotion I usually guard more carefully. "I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll send us the finalized curriculum by the end of the month." The director's tone carries warmth underneath the professionalism. "We believe in what you're building, Mr. Sullivan. Kids from urban areas who've never seen a working ranch, never touched a horse, never learned that their hands can build something real—they deserve this opportunity. And frankly, your background makes you uniquely qualified to provide it."
We discuss logistics for another twenty minutes—disbursement schedules, reporting requirements, the liability documentation they'll need before funds transfer. I take notes on paper I'll barely be able to read later, my handwriting deteriorating as the reality of what's happening settles into my bones.
When the call ends, I sit with the phone still in my hand, staring at the Manhattan skyline through windows that used to feel like the walls of a cage.
This isn't fantasy anymore.
The thought arrives with weight I wasn't prepared for, pressing against my chest like something physical. This is calendar dates circled in red. Liability insurance policies I need to finalize. Staffing requirements I have four months to solve—counselors and instructors and kitchen staff and medical personnel, all of them needing to be vetted and hired and trained before the first bus of kids arrives in June.
Four months. Twenty children. A dream that suddenly demands execution instead of imagination.
Adison finds me still sitting there an hour later, the skyline shifted into late afternoon gold while I've been running numbers in my head that don't quite add up yet.
"Jake?" She closes the door behind her, and whatever she sees in my face makes her cross the room without asking questions. "What happened?"
"The Morrison Foundation called." The words feel strange in my mouth, too small for what they're carrying. "They're funding twenty scholarships. Full ride. Everything."
She sinks into the chair across from me, and I watch understanding dawn across her features—the particular sharpening of her gaze that happens when she's processing information with strategic implications.
"Twenty kids," she says slowly. "First summer."
"First summer." I set down the phone I've been holding for an hour and run my hands through my hair, needing the physical sensation to anchor me. "Transportation, housing, meals, equipment. They're covering all of it. I just have to—" I stop, because the list of what I have to do suddenly feels infinite.
"Have to what?"
"Build everything else." The laugh that escapes sounds slightly unhinged even to me. "Hire staff. Finalize curriculum. Make sure the facilities pass inspection. Figure out how to transform a working ranch into something that can handle twenty urban kids who've never seen a cow in person."
Adison reaches across the desk and takes my hands, her grip steady against my trembling fingers.
"Tell me what you're feeling right now."
The question cuts through the logistics spiral, forcing me to examine something I've been avoiding since the call ended. I search for words that match the chaos in my chest.
"Terrified," I admit. "This was supposed to be someday. This was supposed to be the thing I worked toward for years before it became real. And now it's four months away, and I don't know if I'm actually capable of pulling it off."
"You are."
"You don't know that."
"I know you." She squeezes my hands, her expression carrying the particular certainty she brings to everything she believes in. "I've watched you build things your whole life, Jake. The ranch. The riding program in New Jersey. This marriage, despite every obstacle we threw at each other." Her voice softens. "You're not someone who dreams without executing. You're someone who executes so thoroughly that the dreams become inevitable."
The faith in her voice settles something that's been rattling loose in my chest since the phone rang.
"We'll figure it out together," she continues. "Your purpose doesn't compete with mine—it complements it. I have resources. Connections. A team of people who solve impossible logistics for a living. And I have a husband who's about to change the lives of twenty kids who never knew they needed a ranch in Texas to find out who they are."
"Adison—"
"I'm not finished." She stands and circles the desk, settling onto the arm of my chair and pulling my head against her shoulder. "Watching you become this version of yourself makes me love you in ways I didn't know I had access to. I thought I knew all the shapes of loving you. I was wrong."
I wrap my arms around her waist and let myself lean into her certainty, borrowing strength I don't have enough of on my own. The skyline glows amber beyond the windows, and for a moment the terror recedes enough for something else to take its place.
Gratitude. Purpose. The particular fullness of being seen by someone who believes in what you're building.
Later that night, after Elijah's asleep and Adison's curled up with quarterly reports she's pretending to read, I video call Tommy in Texas.
His face fills the screen, sun-weathered and grinning, and the sight of him grounds me in ways Manhattan's skyline never could.
"Heard you got some news today," he says. "Adison texted me. Twenty kids, first summer. You ready for that?"
"Not even close."
"Good." His grin widens. "Means you're taking it seriously. What do you need from me?"
We talk logistics until midnight—bunkhouse capacity, arena scheduling, which horses are gentle enough for beginners and which ones will terrify city kids into respecting animals they've never encountered. Tommy's already thinking three steps ahead, anticipating problems I haven't considered, offering solutions with the casual competence of someone who's been managing ranch operations since before I left.
"We can do this," he says finally, when we've exhausted the immediate planning and moved into the territory of dreaming out loud. "These kids are going to show up scared and leave different. That's worth whatever chaos the next four months throw at us."
"Yeah." I lean back in my chair and let the exhaustion settle over me like a blanket. "It really is."
The call ends, and I sit in the dark living room listening to the city hum outside windows I've stopped resenting.
The summer feels closer than it should. Everything I'm building feels closer than it should—the scholarships, the children, the transformation waiting to happen on land I carry inside me even when I'm a thousand miles away.
And for the first time since leaving the ranch, I understand something I've been circling for months without quite grasping.
Home isn't a place you stay. It's something you carry with you and plant wherever love takes root.
I've been planting all along. I just didn't recognize the garden until now.