I straightened slowly, hands falling from the locker. “What?”
“You heard me.” He shrugged one big shoulder. “If you don’t like the circumstances, change what happens next.”
“That’s not how this works, man. I can’t just… un-burn a truck.”
“No,” he said. “But you might be able to help rebuild one.”
The words sparked something in my chest. A tiny flare of… not hope, exactly. Determination.
I thought about the Cartwright barn. About the way Esmerelda had trotted over like I’d hung the stars, about the tools and old equipment gathering dust in the corner. About the empty space near the back where someone might feasibly back in a small trailer if they wanted to.
I thought about Jess’s face when she’d seen the ruined truck. The way her voice had broken when she’d said, “That’s my everything.” The fact that she hadn’t shoved me away when I’d wrapped an arm around her and let her shake.
“Meatball thinks the shell’s salvageable,” I said slowly. “Frame’s straight. Wheels are fine. It’s the interior that’s toast.”
“Okay,” Moose said. “So gut it. Strip it down. Start over.”
“With what money?” I asked. “I don’t need to see her books to know this will be a struggle.”
Jess was private, proud, and stubborn. She’d rather set herself on fire than ask for help. Which meant that if anyone was going to step in, it had to be someone who could do it without making her feel like a charity case.
My mind started flipping through mental inventory: who in town owed the fire department a favor, who did renovations on the side, whose cousin might have a line on secondhand restaurant equipment, which of the guys understood wiring enough to re-run a food truck safely.
It added up faster than I expected.
“We’ve got the labor,” I heard myself say. “Between us and a couple of volunteers. Meatball knows his way around a panel. Tyler’s cousin runs that salvage yard outside town. Chief’ll sign off on us using the bay or the barn as a workspace if we spin it as community outreach.”
Moose’s smile grew slow and satisfied. “There we go. That’s the face I was waiting for.”
“What face?”
“The ‘I’ve decided on a terrible, exhausting, emotionally complicated project that will probably consume my life for the next several weeks’ face.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “Congratulations. You’re officially screwed.”
“She will never let me do this for her,” I said. “She’ll fight me every step.”
“So don’t do it for her,” he said. “Do it for the town. For the Twelve Stops. For community morale. For your caffeine addiction. Pick your angle.”
I opened my mouth to argue and closed it again. He had a point. The festival depended on Pour Decisions. Half the businesses downtown did better when Jess was open and caffeinating people. Framing it as a community effort to get her back on her feet wasn’t just spin—it was true.
“Even if we could pull it off,” I said, “we’re talking weeks. Custom build-outs take time. We’re not magicians.”
“Sure,” he said. “But we’re firefighters. We’re used to doing the impossible on a shitty timeline.” He cocked his head. “And Christmas is—what—three weeks out?”
“Three and change,” I said.
He spread his hands. “Sounds like just enough time to be idiots.”
I scrubbed a hand over my face, smoke grit scratching my skin. I was tired, emotionally wrung out, and fully aware that what I was considering was insane.
I also knew I was going to do it.
“Okay,” I said.
Moose blinked. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” I drew in a deep breath, and something settled inside me. “Okay. We’re doing this.”
“Atta boy.” He grinned. “So, what’s the plan?”
