"Wooow," I breathe.
Two fire trucks have pulled up in front of Washington's house. Actual fire trucks, red and gleaming, with Station 42 printed on the sides. And climbing out of them, dressed in their gear like they're responding to an actual emergency, are the firefighters.
Marcus leads the pack, and before anyone can say anything, Becker's flying out the front door without a coat, sprinting through the snow like a golden retriever who just heard the wordwalk.
He crashes into Marcus, wrapping his arms around the firefighter in a hug that lifts Marcus slightly off the ground.
"Fucking finally!" Becker's voice carries back to us.
Marcus, laughing, pats Becker's back. "Heard you needed some help."
The firefighters unload equipment from the trucks—shovels, more lights, what appears to be some kind of massive heating unit—and I watch in amazement as they immediately get to work.
They start clearing the backyard, working in teams, shoveling in synchronized patterns that probably have names I don't know. It's like watching a very cold, very practical ballet.
I head outside, grabbing my coat on the way, and the cold hits me like a slap. The temperature's dropped significantly injust the last hour, and the wind is picking up, turning the gentle snowfall into something more aggressive.
Washington's backyard is easily big enough for a regulation-sized rink if you're not picky about exact dimensions, but it's currently covered in about six inches of snow and growing, which is where the firefighters come in.
I watch them work for a moment, before I remember I have about seventeen things I'm supposed to be coordinating.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to find 87 unread messages in the group chat.
I can't deal with that right now.
I open my task management app instead, scrolling through the list that's been growing all day:
?Confirm streaming equipment (Becker)
?Secure generators (Jinx)
?Test backup power (IN PROGRESS)
?Set up adoption station (Mama Paws + Leila)
?Flood rink (WAITING ON SNOW CLEARING)
?Coordinate food/beverage (Kayla + Hunter)
?Social media campaign (???)
Right. Social media. I was supposed to handle that hours ago.
I head back inside, shaking snow off my coat, and find a quiet corner in what I assume to be Leila's home office. I pull up my laptop, connect to the Wi-Fi, and dial Philip's mom.
She answers on the second ring, her face filling the screen. She's in her sixties, wearing reading glasses on a chain, sitting in what looks like a very cozy living room. “Hey, Mrs. Parks.”
"Devon, honey! How's the chaos?"
"Chaotic. I need your extraordinary brain."
"Flattery will get you everywhere. What do you need?"
I catch her up on the situation—the storm, the last-minute pivot, the livestream, the need to get as many eyes on this as possible.
She listens, nodding, occasionally jotting notes on a pad of paper, and when I'm done, she adjusts her glasses and says, "Okay. Here's what you're going to do."
For the next twenty minutes, she walks me through social media strategy like she's a marketing professor and I'm a student who showed up to class unprepared.
