Chap­ter 184 begins with an unex­pect­ed vis­it from Sam­my, who arrives car­ry­ing a strik­ing brass and leather-bound case. With a flour­ish, he unveils its con­tents to Charlotte—a rare 1912 Boss & Co. shot­gun, craft­ed in Lon­don and steeped in leg­end. The heir­loom, accord­ing to Sam­my, once played a part in a dead­ly dis­pute over gam­bling debts. Charlotte’s reac­tion is a mix of awe and amuse­ment, her fin­gers trac­ing the ele­gant crafts­man­ship with fas­ci­na­tion. She quips that it might serve as a deter­rent to unsuit­able suit­ors or, per­haps iron­i­cal­ly, attract more of them due to its flair. Patch, nev­er one to let a moment slip with­out humor, jokes about putting those suit­ors in cuffs, which draws laugh­ter from the group. Despite the firearm’s omi­nous back­sto­ry, the scene is lighthearted—marked by warmth and cama­raderie, a rare shared moment of ease.

Soon after, the mood shifts as Saint pre­pares for their trip back to Kansas. The eighty-mile stretch ahead doesn’t deter Charlotte’s chat­ter, which spills forth with teenage excite­ment over a par­ty and a boy named Dal­las. Patch, already skep­ti­cal of the name alone, reserves judg­ment but makes it clear he doesn’t like the sound of him. Char­lotte, in her usu­al bold spir­it, remarks that Dallas’s cur­rent roman­tic inter­ests won’t pan out, hint­ing that she might be a bet­ter match. Her remarks are tinged with humor, espe­cial­ly as she links her con­fi­dence to the new­ly gift­ed shotgun—joking that it might tip fate in her favor. The con­ver­sa­tion blends youth­ful opti­mism with a pro­tec­tive under­cur­rent from the adults, reflect­ing their grow­ing con­cerns over Char­lot­te’s inde­pen­dence and choic­es.

As they dri­ve through the rolling coun­try­side, the land­scape gives way to an emo­tion­al detour. They stop by Misty’s grave, where Patch qui­et­ly steps aside, leav­ing Char­lotte to grieve or reflect in soli­tude. It’s a qui­et, pow­er­ful pause in the narrative—underscoring how the liv­ing con­tin­ue to car­ry the weight of those who have passed. Patch’s ges­ture is one of respect and qui­et love, giv­ing his daugh­ter space while pri­vate­ly shoul­der­ing his own loss. Moments like this remind read­ers of how grief can linger in the most ordi­nary days, woven into dri­ves, con­ver­sa­tions, and shared silences. This vis­it, though brief, reflects how fam­i­ly wounds, par­tic­u­lar­ly ones root­ed in absence, con­tin­ue to shape Charlotte’s and Patch’s lives.

Lat­er, they arrive at the Culpep­per Zoo, a place burst­ing with life and movement—an inten­tion­al con­trast to the still­ness of the ceme­tery. Char­lotte dives into the expe­ri­ence with con­ta­gious ener­gy, mark­ing spots on the map, lead­ing the way, and enthu­si­as­ti­cal­ly chat­ting about the ani­mals. Patch watch­es her, com­fort­ed by her spir­it, grate­ful for the dis­trac­tion and for the glimpses of joy he rarely allows him­self. The zoo becomes more than a destination—it sym­bol­izes a moment of renew­al, a pock­et of peace in their often tur­bu­lent lives. Her light­heart­ed ques­tions, point­ing out facts about rep­tiles and pri­mates, offer fleet­ing moments of nor­mal­cy. These details about Charlotte—her curios­i­ty, her courage—paint her as a girl still caught between ado­les­cence and adult­hood, crav­ing both auton­o­my and con­nec­tion.

How­ev­er, Patch’s inter­nal state begins to unrav­el as they enter the rep­tile house. The dim light­ing, close humid­i­ty, and ser­pen­tine forms awak­en some­thing dark with­in him. His breath­ing quick­ens, palms damp­en, and a tin­gling sense of dread crawls across his chest. It isn’t fear of the reptiles—it’s the grip of mem­o­ry, anx­i­ety tak­ing hold in vis­cer­al form. He bat­tles to stay present for Charlotte’s sake, but his mind betrays him with flash­es of Grace and unre­solved ghosts. In pris­ons of trau­ma, the body remem­bers long before the mind allows clar­i­ty. As his heart­beat pounds in his ears, Patch tries to ground him­self, clench­ing his fists in rhythm with Charlotte’s care­free com­men­tary on the snakes behind the glass. The emo­tion­al con­trast between father and daugh­ter could not be more stark.

Mean­while, Saint, away from the day’s jour­ney, receives a call that pierces her care­ful­ly bal­anced emo­tion­al state. It’s Charlotte’s voice on the oth­er end, call­ing her on her birthday—a ges­ture as inti­mate as it is sud­den. The call, though wel­come, casts a shad­ow of unease. It’s a reminder that their emo­tion­al bonds, while strong, are teth­ered to a world filled with fragili­ty and the unknown. The chap­ter clos­es not with cel­e­bra­tion, but with ques­tions and qui­et appre­hen­sion, as Saint feels the frag­ile ten­sion that comes with lov­ing some­one too much in a world that rarely guar­an­tees safe­ty. The final line leaves a last­ing chill, not from what is said, but from what is yet to come.