Tessa
The call comes just after dinner the following night.
We’re halfway through clearing the table when Sawyer’s radio crackles sharp and urgent on the counter. Lacee startles. I freeze.
Sawyer doesn’t.
He moves.
Chair back. Radio in hand. Eyes already shifting into that controlled, locked-in focus I’ve learned to recognize.
“Structure fire. East ridge,” the dispatcher says.
His jaw tightens.
“I’ve got it,” he answers, already heading for the door.
He pauses only long enough to look at Lacee. “I’ll be back before you wake up.”
She nods, brave like she’s practiced it.
He doesn’t look at me.
The door shuts behind him and the finality of it makes my heart ache.
The house instantly feels colder.
Sirens wail through town twenty minutes later.
Lacee pretends not to hear them.
I tuck her into bed early. Read two extra chapters of her book. Sit on the edge of her bed until her breathing evens out.
Then I walk to the porch.
The sky over Devil’s Peak glows faint orange in the distance.
I hug my arms around myself.
He told me he wasn’t bracing anymore.
But the second that radio went off, I saw it.
The armor.
He comes home just after two in the morning.
The truck door slams harder than usual.
I’m still awake on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, pretending to watch late-night reruns.
The front door opens.
Smoke follows him in.
He looks wrecked.
Soot streaked across his jaw. Shirt clinging damp to his chest. Eyes dark—not tired. Haunted.
