Chapter 1
Beck
"And then the T-Rex goes RAAAAWR and bites the triceratops RIGHT ON THE FACE and there's blood everywhere—probably—and the triceratops is like 'OH NO' and tries to stab him with the horns but the T-Rex is TOO FAST and—Daddy, are you even listening?"
The rearview mirror captures Ivy's indignant expression, plastic dinosaurs clutched in both hands like tiny weapons of mass destruction. Her curls have exploded into a halo of chaos that perfectly matches the state of my life. My hands grip the steering wheel tighter than necessary. The leather squeaks under my palms.
"Listening," I confirm, which is technically true even if my brain checked out somewhere around the third decapitation.
"Okay good because this is the IMPORTANT part." She smacks the T-Rex against the window. "The pterodactyl swoops down and is all like 'I'M GONNA GET YOU' but then the brachiosaurus—that's the really tall one with the long neck?—"
"I know what a brachiosaurus is."
"Well SOME people don't, Daddy." The judgment in her voice belongs to someone who's spent significantly more time studying the Cretaceous period than managing a firestation. "Anyway the brachiosaurus steps on the pterodactyl by ACCIDENT because it didn't see it and now the pterodactyl is FLAT like a pancake."
The mountains rising around us look nothing like Seattle's skyline. Copper Ridge sprawls across the valley below—a town small enough that the entire population could probably fit inside Pike Place Market. Trees everywhere. Actual sky. Quiet that makes city noise feel like a fever dream. My shoulders haven't unclenched since we crossed the state line. I roll them back, trying to shake twelve years of Seattle off my spine.
My jaw aches from clenching. Fresh start. Right. The trees don't care about my baggage, and the mountains won't judge my failures. Ivy deserves a backyard. That's what matters.
"Is the pterodactyl dead?" The question escapes before survival instincts kick in.
Ivy gasps like I've suggested dinosaurs never existed. "Daddy, no. Pterodactyls have very strong bones. It just needs to go to the dinosaur hospital and get an X-ray and maybe some medicine and it'll be FINE."
Right. Dinosaur healthcare. Obviously.
The GPS announces our arrival in a tone that suggests even artificial intelligence has doubts about this decision. Station 7 appears through the windshield—a modern building trying very hard to blend with mountain aesthetic. Lots of wood. Lots of stone. My stomach knots. The building looks solid. Professional. The kind of place where crews have each other's backs or freeze out the new guy who thinks his Seattle credentials matter. I kill the engine. The silence rushes in. Ivy's already unbuckling herself, dinosaurs clutched like credentials of her own.
"We're here, bug."
"Is this where you're gonna fight fires?" Ivy presses her face against the window, leaving nose prints that'll require industrialcleaner. "Do they have a POLE? Please say they have a pole. I NEED to see the pole."
"Probably have a pole."
"YESSSSS." She starts her victory wiggle, which in a booster seat looks like a possessed caterpillar. "Can I slide down it?"
"Absolutely not."
"But Daddy?—"
"Fire poles are for firefighters, not six-year-olds who think velociraptors are an acceptable breakfast topic."
"They ARE though." Zero doubt in her voice. The kid has more confidence than my entire crew combined.
Stepping out of the truck feels like stepping into a different dimension. My boots hit gravel. The mountain air bites cold against my face, sharper than Seattle's damp chill. I breathe it in deep, hold it, let it burn my lungs clean. The air smells like pine instead of exhaust. Birds make actual bird noises instead of car alarms pretending to be birds. A wooden sign reading "Station 7 - Copper Ridge Fire Department" looks hand-carved and probably cost more than my first car.
And there it is. Right on schedule. The guilt.
Vanessa loved Seattle—the energy, the options, the life that didn't involve mountains and manual labor. She wanted Thai food at midnight and art galleries on a whim. She wanted a husband who came home for dinner instead of volunteering for double shifts because silence at the dinner table felt worse than smoke inhalation.
She found someone who gave her those things. The affair wasn't a surprise so much as confirmation of something already broken.
My fault. Mostly. The shutting down, the distance, the genetic gift from a father who treated emotions like structural weaknesses. Vanessa deserved better than a man carved from granite who couldn't figure out how to be warm.
"Daddy, you have your grumpy face."
Ivy's hand finds mine, small and sticky from whatever she demolished in the truck. Those brown eyes—Vanessa's eyes—study my face like she's searching for clues.
"Just thinking, bug."
