At times, I shift the filming to a timelapse, as I don’t think viewers want to sit through two hours of me emptying little bags of goodies.
By the time I’m done, my heart is full, but as I turn off the camera, I realize I’m emotionally exhausted.
When I finally shower and change into some soft pajamas and I lie down, it’s with a quiet satisfaction that I’ve gotten another difficult job done. But more than that, I’m feeling less broken, more healed, and lighter.
I fall asleep almost instantly.
And when I wake, it’s to the smell of something sharp and acrid.
Something…wrong.
Groggily, I open my eyes and see smoke crawling along the ceiling, looming above me.
For half a second, my brain refuses to fully switch back online.
Fire.
Fire!
I sit up too fast, heart slamming in my chest. Heat presses against my skin as I grab my phone and stumble into the hall, coughing, to see the back of the house is already burning.
“No.No!”
The fear I’m losing the only tangible thing I have, the very roof over my head, collides with the reality that I’ll die with it if I don’t move.
I throw my phone, laptop, and shoes into a bag, run into Nanna’s room, scoop up the box containing the jewelry of hers I wanted to keep, and run out of the house.
Flames lick at the curtains of the living room as I turn back to look at the building. With shaking hands, I dial 911, words tumbling out in gasps as I sprint across the road, barefoot and in my pajamas.
Tears blur my vision.
“It’s already consumed half the house,” I gasp when asked about the size of the fire.
And as I answer more questions, I know they won’t be able to save it, because it’s a fair drive here from the nearest fire station and the house is burning up fast.
“Garrett,” I scream as I approach the house. I don’t question why his door is open. Instead, I run straight inside, where grief crashes into horror.
Garrett is on his knees. Hands on his head. He’s wincing and sweating.
A man stands in front of him, gun pointed straight at his face.
The scream dies in my throat.
34
JACKAL
My life is currently a flood of numbers.
Ten. The number of hours since I kissed my loves goodbye.
Eight. The number of hours since I saw Garrett wheel tentatively out of the garage with Isla on the back. Neither of them wearing helmets, which I’ll spank both their asses for when I find them. But the joy I saw on both their faces when they returned, warmed me down to my boots.
I know you shouldn’t check your phone while driving, but I keep mine on a mount on my handlebars. Usually, it’s just directions, but on a long seven-hour ride, I can check shit on my phone in an emergency, if I need to. And I needed to see what Bear and Sunshine were up to.
Five. The number of hours into our journey to Cedar City we were before I got a notification that a stranger rang the doorbell and pulled a gun just as Garrett answered.
Also, five. Hours passed since I saw Isla run up the driveway, barefoot and crying, clutching a bag and a wooden box.
