Simple.
Except today is the annual “Fire Safety Demonstration” at Mountain Ridge Elementary, and Sadie insisted that I come watch.
I tried to say no because of the ranch, but she looked up at me with those big brown eyes and said, very softly, “But I’ll miss you.”
And that was that.
So now I’m standing in a patch of grass behind the school with parents I barely talk to, watching the Coyote Glen Fire Department try to teach first graders how not to flood the entire county with a fire hose.
“Back it up there, Karl,” Jesse Fletcher shouts as a spray goes rogue and nearly takes out the PTA tent. “Equipment costs more than my truck!”
The kids scream and laugh. A couple of parents wince. One mother clutches her latte so tight it must be all she needs this morning.
Sadie is glowing.
Pigtails bouncing. Jacket sleeves too long. Micah’s tiny hand hooked confidently in hers as they shuffle forward to the front of the line, leading a parade.
I watch her whole face stretch into a smile so big it could hold up the sun.
These moments are the reason I’d walk through fire for her. They’re worth it. Every second.
Karl and Leo crouch beside the kids, helping them aim the spray at the big wooden fire target shaped as a cartoon house.
“Okay, on three,” Leo says. “One, two?—”
“My turn!”
I stiffen.
Eli Spence.
Of course.
He barrels forward, shoving between Sadie and Micah with the grace of a bowling ball in a dryer. Micah stumbles. Sadie goes rigid.
I step closer, every muscle in my body sharpening.
Karl steadies the hose. “Hey, buddy, we take turns.”
“But I’m special!” Eli whines.
I stop dead.
Because Sadie flinches.
Just a tiny brace, shoulders curling, expecting sharpness.
I’ve seen that flinch before.
From adults.
From teachers with too loud voices.
From Marissa.
A memory slices through me…
Marissa pacing our old kitchen.“I can’t do this, Boone. I can’t be here. I can’t breathe here.”
