{"product_id":"pretend-you-re-here","title":"Pretend You’re Here — Borrowed Lives, Book 1","description":"\u003cdiv class=\"bl-story\"\u003e\n\u003csection class=\"bl-intro\" aria-label=\"About Pretend You're Here\"\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"bl-eyebrow\"\u003eBorrowed Lives · Book One\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003ch2\u003eA home prepared for her.\u003cbr\u003eA life she never chose.\u003c\/h2\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eStephanie Caddel comes to Alder Reach looking for Ben Rand, a missing colleague whose letter brought her to the settlement. Instead, she finds a warm cottage, a quiet man, and an eight-year-old girl who has already been told to call her Guardian.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTen years after the collapse, Alder Reach offers everything the road cannot. Food. Shelter. A place at the table.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBut Stephanie’s name is on a household ration card issued before she arrived. The child’s mother is gone. And the closer Stephanie looks at the records, the harder it becomes to tell where care ends and control begins.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"bl-question\"\u003eWhat would you give for a place to belong—and who gets to decide the price?\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003c\/section\u003e\n\u003cdiv class=\"bl-foot\"\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003ePsychological suspense from USA Today bestselling author A. R. Shaw.\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe revised first book in the Borrowed Lives series. A missing colleague. A carefully arranged household. A refuge with secrets of its own.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eEbook delivery:\u003c\/strong\u003e Your BookFunnel download link arrives by email after purchase.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdetails class=\"bl-reader\"\u003e\u003csummary\u003eRead Chapter One · The Second Place Setting\u003c\/summary\u003e\n\u003cdiv class=\"bl-pages\" tabindex=\"0\" role=\"region\" aria-label=\"Chapter One sample\"\u003e\n\u003ch3\u003eThe Second Place Setting\u003c\/h3\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe child had put out a plate for me before anyone asked whether I intended to stay.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTwo large plates, one small. The large ones faced each other across the kitchen table. A spoon lay beside each, its bowl polished bright, and the smaller place had a folded cloth with a crooked yellow flower sewn into one corner. Through the open stove door came the steady orange light of a fire someone could afford to keep burning in October.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI stood on the mat, dripping on a row of neatly paired shoes.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“June, this is Stephanie,” Anthony said behind me.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe girl lifted her chin. She had a narrow face and a single braid fraying above her left ear. One sock had slipped down beneath her heel.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Good afternoon, Guardian.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThen, quickly, “I mean welcome. Welcome to your home.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe watched Anthony instead of me.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHe shifted my bag from one hand to the other. “June’s been helping get things ready.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I can see that.” I unfastened my wet jacket. “You can call me Steph.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJune put her palm over the flower.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eOutside, somebody rang a bell twice. Anthony set down my bag, leaving a muddy crescent beside it on the boards, and reached for the door.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Wait. Where’s Ben?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“You’ll have to ask the director about Ben.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“You said that at the gate.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I know. He’ll be able to tell you more.” His fingers stayed around the latch. He was about thirty, with rain darkening the shoulders of a canvas coat and a bicycle clip still fastened to one trouser leg. “Mr. Gaber’s in stores. They’re counting the winter shipment space.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Then I’ll go to stores.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJune pulled the small plate toward herself. It scraped the table loudly enough that we both turned.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAnthony lowered his voice. “Let me get you the latest on the spur first. You’ve had a long walk.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThat much was true. Six miles west of Alder Reach, half the spur road had slipped into the creek. I had crossed on foot above the washout, carrying my bag against my chest, while the driver waited on the far side to see whether I made it. When I raised my arm, he backed his truck around in three careful turns and left. Anthony had met me where the path joined the settlement road and promised someone would assess the bank in the morning.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI could leave the same way I had come. In daylight, with dry feet, it might even be pleasant.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“One night,” I said. “While you find out.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHe nodded as if we had settled something larger.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Will you tell Gaber I’m here?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“He knows.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe latch clicked behind him.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJune and I listened to his boots on the porch. When they had gone down the steps, she moved the small plate back into position and squared it to the edge of the table with two fingers.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Do you want your shoes there?” she asked.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI glanced at the puddle forming under me. “I think they’ve chosen.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe brought a rag from beneath the sink and handed it to me without smiling. I took off my boots and wiped the floor. There was a hole in my right sock, which I tucked under my foot before standing. At forty-four, after ten winters of making do, I still cared whether a child saw my toe.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Where can I hang this?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJune pointed to a peg beside the back door. Another coat hung next to it, brown wool with a faded lining showing at the neck. It was an adult’s coat, narrower through the shoulders than mine. One cuff had been repaired with three different shades of thread, all in tiny, close stitches. Whoever had mended it had kept going long after the right thread ran out.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI lifted its sleeve clear of my dripping jacket.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“That stays,” June said.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I was only keeping it dry.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“It goes on that hook.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“All right.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe checked the sleeve when I stepped away, smoothing it down until the cuff lay against the pocket. Her hand stayed on the wool after the smoothing was done.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eOn the road I had passed houses with trees growing through their porch roofs. A grocery cart lay on its side in a ditch, its basket full of needles, the plastic handle bleached almost white. Here, a clean towel hung over the stove rail. There was a glazed bowl of apples on the counter. I could smell onions in a covered pot and, under the onions, cedar and laundry soap.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe grid had failed, the trucks had stopped coming, and people had spent years hauling what they could out of the places that emptied. Ten years later, I could usually tell how a settlement was doing by its door hinges. These had been oiled.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Is there someone here with you?” I asked.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Peter’s bringing the blankets.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“How old are you, June?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Eight.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe covered the flower again.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I’m going to sit down for a minute. Is this chair all right?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“That’s yours.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI sat in it.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMy hands began to ache as the heat reached them. I pulled Ben’s letter out of the inside pocket of my jacket and checked the folded edge for damp. The envelope had survived better than I had. My name was typed across the front: Stephanie Caddel. Few people bothered with the whole thing anymore. Ben never had.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHe had been out of contact for six weeks. He sometimes went quiet when a lead took him beyond the radio routes, but he always left word through a driver or a kitchen that accepted messages. This time there had been nothing until the invitation, passed west through the freight stops. Come to Alder Reach. There were families whose records needed sorting. Gaber would arrange the work. Ben’s name waited at the bottom.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI had read it so often on the road that the folds had gone soft as cloth. Ben could no more walk away from an unfinished case than from an unfinished plate. Half the way here I had pictured him bent over one at somebody’s table, annoyed that I had worried.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJune leaned far enough to see the envelope.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Is that your paper?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“It is.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Are you supposed to give it in?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Who told you that?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe straightened. “I just asked.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Then no. I’m keeping it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI tucked it away. On the wall above the counter hung a small photograph behind glass: June on a bench, younger, with her knees sticking straight out from a summer dress. At the left edge of the picture, the varnished backing showed in a pale rectangle. The remaining print had been cut along a nearly straight line. A strip of white tape held it to the board. The tape was whiter than the print.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI glanced at June. She was turning the handle of a spoon so it pointed toward the stove.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe porch boards sounded again.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eA man came in sideways carrying a mattress rolled around a bundle of sheets. He caught the door with his boot, saw me, and stopped.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Oh,” he said.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI stood. “Stephanie.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Peter.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHe had gray at his temples and wood shavings caught in the cuff of his sweater. He shifted the mattress to offer his hand, found he had none to spare, and nodded toward the kitchen instead.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Did Anthony explain?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Which part?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHe counted the places at the table, then looked back at me.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJune opened the narrow door beside the stove. “In here.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Thank you.” He eased the mattress into the little room, bent it past the doorframe, and came back without it. “I thought there was another day.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Before what?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“The placement.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHe took off his coat. There was no peg free. After a moment he folded it over his arm.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“June,” he said, “there’s a clean pillowcase in the bundle. Would you put it on for me?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe stayed where she was.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“You can leave the door open,” he added.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe went into the room, dragging the pillow out from beneath the sheets. Peter stepped toward the front window. I followed far enough that we could speak without raising our voices, though the cottage gave us very little privacy. Across the lane, someone drew a curtain.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“What placement?” I asked.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I was told someone was coming to share June’s care. Someone who had agreed.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I came to find a man named Ben Rand. I agreed to stay out of the rain.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003ePeter rubbed at a patch of white paint on the heel of his hand. It stayed there.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“They said you understood.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Who said?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“The office. When they sent me for bedding.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“What did you agree to?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Helping here. Being responsible for June.” His gaze moved past me to the open door. “She knows me.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“And you live here?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I’ve been sleeping on the bench. I’m putting the mattress in the spare room tonight. You can have the larger room.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eOn the bench lay a folded blanket, a carpenter’s rule tucked along its edge. One end of the cushion sagged where he had been sleeping. A pillow lay at the end nearest the stairs.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I’ll speak to Gaber,” I said.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003ePeter nodded. He seemed to be waiting for the rest, for the part in which I told him what would happen next. Once, I had carried a badge people could reasonably expect to mean something. Now I had a dry letter and one sound pair of boots.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I’m staying tonight,” I said. “That’s all I can promise.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eFrom the spare room came a frustrated grunt. The pillow had jammed halfway into its case. Peter moved to help, but June pulled it away from him, wrestled the far corner into place, and slapped it twice with both hands.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“There.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Thank you,” he said.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe carried it to the mattress herself.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWhile he washed at the sink, I found bowls in the cupboard. June corrected me: the plates were for the bread, and the bowls were on the shelf above. She counted them before letting me take them down. The pot held barley and onions, with pieces of carrot softened almost to sweetness. Peter brought out bread wrapped in a cloth.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI had questions for both of them. June watched every exchange, lifting her spoon only after we lifted ours. I put the questions aside long enough to eat.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe heat made my wet hair curl against my neck. My feet had stopped hurting. Rain worked at the roof, and none of it came through. There was enough food left in the pot for another ladle, and Peter passed it when I asked, and for a minute I let myself eat like a woman who would be in the same chair tomorrow.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eOnly when June bent over her bowl did he tell me about the morning.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“There’s a household interview,” he said. “They put us down for it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eI set my spoon beside the plate she had chosen for me.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“What time?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e\u003c\/details\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e\u003cstyle\u003e.bl-story{--bl-night:#091c29;--bl-gold:#e9c88e;--bl-cream:#f7f0e4;color:#233642;font-family:Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;margin:24px 0;max-width:100%;overflow-wrap:break-word}\n.bl-story *{box-sizing:border-box}\n.bl-story .bl-intro{padding:clamp(24px,5vw,40px);border-radius:8px 8px 0 0;background:radial-gradient(ellipse at 95% 10%,#294455 0,transparent 65%),var(--bl-night);border:1px solid #3b4d56;color:var(--bl-cream)}\n.bl-story .bl-eyebrow{font:600 11px\/1.7 system-ui,sans-serif;letter-spacing:.18em;text-transform:uppercase;color:var(--bl-gold);margin:0 0 18px}\n.bl-story h2{font:400 clamp(25px,3vw,33px)\/1.25 Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;color:var(--bl-cream);letter-spacing:-.02em;margin:0 0 20px}\n.bl-story .bl-intro p:not(.bl-eyebrow){font-size:16px;line-height:1.8;color:#e4e9e8;margin:0 0 18px}\n.bl-story .bl-intro p:last-child{margin-bottom:0}\n.bl-story .bl-question{border-left:2px solid var(--bl-gold);padding-left:18px;font-style:italic;color:var(--bl-gold)!important}\n.bl-story .bl-foot{background:var(--bl-cream);border:1px solid #d9d0c1;border-top:0;padding:22px 26px;font:14px\/1.8 system-ui,sans-serif}\n.bl-story .bl-foot p{margin:0 0 8px}.bl-story .bl-foot p:last-child{margin:0}\n.bl-story .bl-reader{border:1px solid #d9d0c1;border-top:0;border-radius:0 0 8px 8px;background:#fffdf8;overflow:hidden}\n.bl-story .bl-reader summary{cursor:pointer;padding:22px 26px;font:600 14px\/1.5 system-ui,sans-serif;color:#173545;min-height:48px}\n.bl-story .bl-reader summary:hover{background:#f1e8d9}.bl-story .bl-reader summary:focus-visible,.bl-story .bl-pages:focus-visible{outline:3px solid #a47535;outline-offset:-4px}\n.bl-story .bl-pages{max-height:560px;overflow-y:auto;padding:0 26px 26px;overscroll-behavior:contain}\n.bl-story .bl-pages h3{color:#173545;font:400 23px\/1.35 Georgia,serif;margin:8px 0 24px}\n.bl-story .bl-pages p{font:17px\/1.85 Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;color:#263b46;margin:0 0 1.1em}\n@media(max-width:480px){.bl-story .bl-foot,.bl-story .bl-reader summary{padding:20px}.bl-story .bl-pages{padding:0 20px 20px;max-height:460px}}\u003c\/style\u003e","brand":"A.R. 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