The last few days had been anefficientbitch.
I stared at the ceiling. Who was I kidding? This wasn’t my house. I’d bought it, sure, but even if I stripped the place of everythingJosh, it would still be full of reminders of him.
Even more than that, though, it would be full of reminders of me, from before.
This bed was for the Reece who didn’t know his future might be significantly more difficult and painful than he’d thought. This room was for the man who didn’t worry about things like MRI results, phantom limb pain, stumbling over words, and hands that stiffened and ached.
He planned research fieldwork trips around things like weather, terrain, and the gear he’d need to pack. I couldn’t even imagine planning one at all. What if I panicked, shoved myself into a flare-up, and couldn’t hike to safety?
I didn’t know how the Reece I was now, the Reeceafter, fit anymore.
In this house, or in this life.
You don’t, the Thing hunched at the end of the bed rasped.You don’t fit anywhere anymore, with anyone.
I turned away, unable to look at the truth in its words. It’d crawled into my life the day I was diagnosed, plucked the fearsfrom my deepest, darkest hidden thoughts, and whispered them back to me at my lowest.
I hated it. I hated it so much.
My phone rang from where it charged on the nightstand. Pulled from my dark spiral, I checked the caller ID and silenced it upon seeing the unknown number. Maybe Josh had forgotten something and called from Brock’s phone, hoping I’d actually pick up.
Probably whatever product he used to style his hair in that annoyingly, perfectly imperfect way.
He could wait.
But when the voicemail notification chimed, I reached over to check again. Who the fuck left a voicemail instead of just texting?
Brows creased, I hit the speaker button on the recording.
“Reece,” a familiar voice said. “It’s Leonard, your Dad’s buddy back in Ponderosa. Got a new number a while back. I tried calling him the other day to get hold of you, but I haven’t heard back. Anyway, there’s a fire lookout position open in the national forest, and I thought I’d see if you’re available for the season. I’d need you here by the last week of May. It’s been a dry winter so far, and the summer weather pattern predictions are making everyone nervous—could be fiery, so we’re filling all the towers. Give me a call if you’re interested.”
CHAPTER ONE
“What the hell is going on?” I mumbled, slowing my truck to a crawl.
Carefully, I avoided side-swiping the long line of parked vehicles that stretched along the narrow shoulder of the highway in front of me. On the opposite side of the road, dozens of people milled around in groups, many of whom were dressed in bright pink shirts and congregated around signs staked into the ground.
“ZONE A”, “ZONE B”, and “ZONE C” flashed by as I passed. I lost track of how far down the alphabet the signs went before media vans overtook the narrow patch of grass.
Odd. It didn’t look like a protest, but I couldn’t think of what else it would be.
A police officer wearing a bright yellow safety vest stood in the center of the road up ahead, directing passing cars through the congestion. Several other police vehicles were parked along the highway, and a handful of officers appeared to be calling out directions to the people gathered farther back.
I nodded at the cop and rolled by, picking up speed again. Thankfully, traffic wasn’t backed up. Not that there wasanything close to real trafficon the winding highway into Ponderosa, Idaho.
It was called theGateway to Nowherefor a reason, after all.
I’d worked and lived in Missoula, Montana, for the last six years, and as rugged as it was compared to most cities in the country, it paled in comparison to the terrain surrounding my hometown.
Really, Ponderosa looked more like a moody off-road SUV commercial than anything else.
Tunnels of fir, spruce, and pine so thick and tall they blocked out the sun grew on either side of the pavement. Abruptly, a sharp bend in the road plunged vehicles out into the open, winding around the sheer mountain face, unveiling dramatic vistas of conifer-covered valleys and steep canyon drop-offs blanketed in fog.
“Douglas fir, Lodgepole pine, Western redcedar!” I used to call out, pointing at each cluster of trees Dad and I drove by on the way home from school. My Forestry Merit Badge was the one I’d been most proud of.
“Very good,” he’d say, chuckling and ruffling the hair on my head. “How about that one?” he’d ask, slowing down to point so I could get a better look.
“Um… I don’t know that one,” I’d said, brow furrowed. That was ok, though, because Dad did, and he’d never once made me feel bad for needing help.
