Chapter One
Briar
The fire alarm shrieks through Devil’s Peak Elementary like the building itself is having a panic attack.
Which, honestly, same.
Twenty-two five-year-olds stare at me with various degrees of horror, excitement, and pure chaos—paper construction-crown projects slipping sideways on their heads while Junie clings to my leg like a terrified koala.
“This is fine,” I lie out loud, cheerful and bright and absolutely panicking on the inside. “It’s just a practice! Remember our line? Quiet feet, quiet hands?—”
A stack of glue sticks falls off the table. A kid starts crying. Someone else starts laughing because the crying kid sounds like a baby goat, and then two of them bleat back at him because apparently that’s contagious.
Perfect.
Exactly how I pictured my first day as a kindergarten teacher.
I try to redirect everyone toward the door. “Okay, friends! Outdoors! Single-file li?—”
And then I see the switch I pulled wrong. The one right next to the actual drill indicator. The one labeled:Alarm System — Full Activation.
My stomach sinks.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
The sound gets louder. Boots pound somewhere in the distance—heavy, urgent, nothing like the mild-mannered drills we practiced yesterday.
And then the hallway shakes.
Or maybe that’s just me.
“Friends,” I squeak, “let’s gonow.”
I herd the tiny group toward the exit, muttering prayers and curses under my breath as we stumble into the sunlight. The kids wobble into a crooked semi-circle, their crowns glittering in the breeze like I’ve led some sort of very short, poorly-organized parade.
Then something massive moves behind me.
No—someone.
I turn—and I freeze.
A firefighter with the name Captain Saxon Cole andDevil’s Peak Fire & Rescueemblazoned on his jacket stalks toward me like an entire natural disaster dressed in turnout gear. Six-foot-something of controlled fury, helmet low, gloves on, jaw set as if he intends to personally fight the building with his bare damn hands.
Holy—
His eyes lock onto me.
And I swear the earth tilts.
“Ma’am,” he barks, deep and sharp enough to vibrate through my bones, “is everyone accounted for?”
“Uh—yes.”
Words. Words would be helpful.
I gesture at my tiny crooked line of bedazzled royalty. “My class is right here. All present. No smoke. No fire. Just…volume.”
