“The board wants a decision by next Friday,” he says. “You interested?”
I should say yes immediately. This is everything I’ve worked for—respect, advancement, better pay, more responsibility.
But all I can think is: will the promotion give me more flexibility to see Laney? Or will it trap me even deeper in the Zone?
“What does it mean for personal time?” I ask. “Travel permits? Ability to… maintain relationships outside the Zone?”
Brokka’s expression shifts. “Ah. The woman.”
“Laney.” Saying her name grounds me. “Her name is Laney, and I’m in love with her.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “You know the restrictions, Ryder. Lieutenant position means MORE time in the Zone, not less. More responsibility, more on-call hours. And with current politics being what they are…” He shakes his head. “Even with the proper permits, you’re looking at maybe two days off per month to travel outside the fence. Maybe.”
The bottom drops out of my chest, a hard, hollow ache. “So, taking the promotion makes it harder.”
“To maintain a relationship with someone outside the Zone? Yeah.” His expression is sympathetic. “I’m not going to lie to you—it’s the reality we live with. Integration is happening, but slowly. Right now, long-distance relationships with outsiders are… difficult.”
“But possible?”
“If both people want it badly enough.” He leans forward. “I’ve seen it work. There are Others who find partners outside and make it happen through sheer determination. Video calls,permits for weekend visits when they can get them, meeting halfway when restrictions allow. It’s not easy, but if you love her—”
“I do.”
“Then you find a way. Or—” He pauses. “Or you make hard choices about what you’re willing to sacrifice.”
The weight of that sits between us.
“Think about it,” Brokka says, standing. “The promotion is yours if you want it. Think about what kind of life you want to build, and whether the career path helps or hurts that vision.”
He leaves me sitting here with cold food and a head full of impossible math.
Six hours later, he calls the all-clear. The fire’s contained enough for closer stations to handle. We’re released to go home.
Before we disperse, Brokka gathers everyone. “Listen up! Tonight’s New Year’s Eve. The Station party is pushed back to Friday, the fifth. Go home, sleep, love your people. We earned it.”
I’m filthy, exhausted, and smell like smoke. My muscles ache, my eyes burn, and I’ve slept maybe twenty hours in six days.
I should go to my apartment. Shower, collapse, and think rationally.
Instead, I’m in my truck the moment the briefing ends, pointed toward the mountains.
The four-hour drive is torture. What if she’s convinced herself this is impossible? What if I’m driving toward a breakup?
My phone’s had signal for an hour, but she hasn’t responded to my messages.
I pull up to the cabin just as the sun is setting, painting everything in shades of gold and shadow. The place looks peaceful. Quiet.
Empty? My heart hammers in my chest. What if she’s left? Gone to a friend’s? My mind is whirling with increasingly wilder ideas until the cabin door opens, and Laney steps onto the porch.
We stare at each other across the yard. She’s wearing jeans and a flannel shirt—not mine, I notice with a painful twinge—and her eyes are red-rimmed like she’s been crying.
“You’re here,” she says, her voice so flat I can’t tell what she’s feeling.
“I’m here.” I don’t move, suddenly terrified. “You didn’t answer my messages.”
“I know.” She wraps her arms around herself. “I didn’t know what to say.”
My heart sinks. “Laney—”
