CARMEN
That same afternoon, LuLu, the diner owner whom I was supposed to trust to examine me, arrived at the clubhouse. I was still struggling to wrap my head around the idea, but also what it means when they say she's a healer. Like, are we talking about some Sci-Fi movie where her hands glow and tada, all better?
But it's fine. I am forcing myself to remember that I trust the people here, and, again, that I need to stay the course. That's probably why Tim hasn't bothered to take me out of the clubhouse since we arrived the other night for the party. I was becoming part of the furniture littering the common area.
Honestly, I was here so much that it started to feel like home—a sanctuary where my worries dissolved and warmth filled every corner.
It reminded me of visiting the Murphys:
