I don't mention the rescue. Somehow, that feels like his story to tell or not tell.
Through my window, I can see smoke rising from his chimney, steady and sure in the darkening sky. Tomorrow I'll get that paper map. Tomorrow I'll figure out how to exist here without needing constant rescue.
Tonight, I archive the coffee shop footage of Jax gushing about Ryder to a private folder. Some stories feel too personal to share.
Through my window, his cabin glows warm against the darkness, and I'm the neighbor who can't even read a trail map.
Chapter 4
Ryder
The rhythm of cleaning equipment settles my brain in a way nothing else can. Disassemble, inspect, clean, reassemble. Each breathing apparatus gets the same methodical attention, the same careful hands that have done this a hundred times since I was fourteen and needed somewhere to put all the grief that threatened to drown me.
Morning practice was brutal—Coach riding us hard because we've got three games where scouts will be showing up, and apparently we played like shit in yesterday's scrimmage. Three hours of conditioning drills that left my legs screaming and my lungs burning.
But here at the firehouse, the world makes sense again. Metal and rubber and procedures that don't change based on mood or performance anxiety.
"Had an interesting visitor yesterday."
Chief Walsh's voice cuts through my focus. I know that tone—casual in the way that means he's about to meddle again.
"I saw that new girl—Piper something—at The Ashwood Café " He strokes his salt-and-pepper beard, examining an oxygen tank that's already been inspected twice. "Seems genuine enough."
My hands still on the regulator valve. Of course he did. Of course he wants to ask the city girl who screams at moose to volunteer at the fire department where I work.
"She's from Anchorage," I say.
"So? You're from here and you still managed to learn which end of the hose points at the fire."
"Chief—"
"I'm just saying, might be nice to have someone young helping with community outreach. Betty's great with the kids' fire safety program, but she doesn't understand social media. Girl like that could probably help us reach more people."
I go back to my equipment, checking seals that don't need checking. "She won't last. First real emergency, she'll be gone."
"Maybe." Chief watches me work with thirty years of experience reading people. "Then again, some people surprise you. Your dad surprised me once—city boy from Seattle, showed up here all educated and soft. Became the best firefighter I ever trained."
The words hit exactly where he aims them, right in that soft spot.
"Dad also didn't have NHL scouts watching his every move."
"No." Chief sets down the oxygen tank carefully. "He just had a son he was raising.
Before I can respond, the alarm bells shatter the afternoon quiet.
"Structure fire, Timber & Tap, 482 Main Street. Kitchen fire with active smoke."
Training takes over. Gear on in forty-five seconds, onto the engine in ninety. Chief drives while I check our equipment list, my mind already mapping the building layout. Kitchen's in the back, two exits, dining room holds sixty, bar area another thirty. Tuesday afternoon means maybe twenty patrons, mostly the lunch crowd lingering over coffee.
We're first on scene. Smoke billows from the kitchen vents, and I can see people milling outside, some still holding their drinks. Frank, the owner, meets us at the door.
"Grease fire got away from the new cook. Tried the extinguisher but?—"
"Everyone out?" I ask, already moving.
"Think so, but?—"
I'm inside before he finishes, the familiar weight of the SCBA settling on my back. My vision narrows to what matters. Smoke's thick but high—there's still breathable air near the floor. I know this building from monthly inspections and annual walkthroughs. I keep my left hand on the wall, counting doorways.
