Prologue
Jasper
Chaos.
Pure chaos. The intense crush of bodies on the sidewalk made it difficult to even walk through town.
The April air was freezing, but not a soul cared. This was the event the whole town came out for. The Maple Festival. It was the motivation needed to get us all out of our homes after six months of winter, and the festival usually brought with it our first wave of tourists.
America’s most charming small town could not survive without those tourist dollars, and since childhood, I’d been conditioned to smile and provide directions for all manner of folks here to visit.
The shopkeepers had been sprucing their places up all week. The daffodils and tulips had just popped out of the ground in the town square, and the massive tents had been set up, the sugar shack tours had been scheduled, and all the artisans had their booths ready to go.
It was the busiest time of year for me. Not only was I needed on the farm to help with tapping trees, changing and cleaning lines, and delivering sap around the clock, but it was all hands on deck at my day job too.
Space heaters plus artisanal alpaca sweaters usually resulted in a few small fires. And out-of-towners would slide off the icy roads. There were emergencies galore. Chief had us working our max number of hours each week. Thankfully, the department was well funded and had a year-round crew in addition to volunteers. But as one of only three licensed paramedics in the vicinity, I’d worked almost nonstop for weeks.
I was bone tired, frozen, and questioning why we cared so much about sticky shit that leaked from trees when the first scream rang out.
If the schedule Mayor Harding had emailed to every citizen of Maplewood was correct, it was time to open the first barrel of syrup. It was technically last year’s sap, but it had been boiled and processed for this occasion. My family had been providing the sap for the annual ceremonial barrel for several generations, something my brother Josh took a great deal of pride in.
It was so like him, to care about that stuff.
I was built different. Sure, I enjoyed the farm and trees, and I could appreciate the family legacy, but I didn’t possess an ounce of passion for any of it. Maybe it was because I was the youngest child. Or maybe I’d been dropped on my head too many times. But in my thirty years, I’d seen life and death and everything in between, and I’d discovered one universal truth. We were not here for a long time, but for a good time. So I did my damndest to make sure I had a good time.
Obsessing over sap or rainfall or fertilizer nitrogen ratios was not my thing. I needed adrenaline and movement. I needed a purpose. And fighting fires and saving lives gave me just that.
I adjusted the strap on my radio and scanned the crowd. My neck ached the way it always did when I worked festivals and events. I was a firefighter, a paramedic, and a babysitter of the drunk and reckless. My job tonight was to make sure people lefthere with nothing more than a maple sugar buzz and a slew of happy memories.
Beneath the ache, my senses tingled. My heart picked up speed in response, an instinctual reaction to an invisible danger. Something felt off.
The radio crackled, and Marty, our dispatcher, quickly relayed information regarding the crisis my body had already picked up on. “Code three at the sugar shack.”
Nolan, our police chief, took off in a sprint toward the folksy sugar hut from the other side of the town green.
My gut tightened. Shit. This was bad. And not just Betsy Ross breaking in and making a mess bad.
As I wove past festival goers, I ignored shouts and startled looks. The sugar shack was only fifty yards away, its chimney puffing smoke eerily into the night sky.
Twenty feet from the structure, my forward movement was stopped by a strong hand on my bicep.
“Jasper.”
I stumbled, my heart lurching, and turned toward the voice. Tony Moretti, the high school football coach and owner of the pizzeria in town, gripped my arm, face red and sucking in air.
“It’s an emergency,” he said, pointing at his shop. “We called, but dispatch said the crew had already responded to another call.”
I shook my head. Shit. The sugar shack. I eyed the small building, my pulse pounding.
Sirens pierced the air, and one of our volunteers pushed through the people crowding around.
Tony tugged my arm, his grip tightening, his expression grave. He was built like a linebacker, but he had the personality of a cuddly puppy. “We’ve got a medical emergency. Please.”
I nodded once. He was right. The chief had already responded to the other call, and I couldn’t ignore a medicalemergency. So I jogged after him, in the opposite direction of the surging crowd.
Inside the old brick storefront, the noise of the festival was muffled and the smell of oregano and singed mozzarella clung to the air.
The restaurant was mostly empty, though my attention was immediately drawn to the woman curled up on the cracked leather booth, crying.
