The man behind it is massive---six-four easily, shoulders like a linebacker, gray beard that suggests he's seen some things. His name tag reads "Big Jim" in letters that look hand-carved.
"You're the new captain," he says. Not a question.
"Beck."
"Jim Kowalski. Retired from Station 7 about five years back." His handshake could crush rocks. "My son's on your crew. Heard you handled the Oak Street fire clean. Crew's talking."
"They did the work. I just pointed them in the right direction."
He studies me for a beat, then grins. "Modest. I like that. What're you drinking?"
"Whatever's cold."
He pulls three beers, slides them across. "First round's on me. Welcome to Copper Ridge."
"Appreciate it." I grab two of the beers. "I should---"
"Sit," he says, nodding toward the stool beside him. "Your crew doesn't need you hovering." He gestures toward Rivera and Deluca at the table in the back, who are deep in conversation and clearly don't need me supervising their beer consumption. "They can grab theirs in a minute. How's the new gig treating you?"
The logic is sound. I slide onto the stool. "Fine."
"That good, huh?" His grin suggests he knows exactly what "fine" means. "And how's landlord life?"
Word travels fast in small towns. "How'd you know about that?"
"Jennifer at Mountain Realty is my cousin. She mentioned you got surprised with a tenant." He takes a pull from his beer. "Pretty paramedic, I hear."
"She's a tenant. She pays rent on time. End of story."
"Uh-huh." He's enjoying this way too much. "And how's your daughter handling having a neighbor?"
"She likes her."
Jim sets his bottle down. "Just 'likes her'? Kids that age don't do anything halfway."
He's not wrong. "It's fine. They hang out on the porch sometimes. Gemma listens to her dinosaur theories."
"Sounds nice." He takes another pull from his beer. "Small-town life takes some getting used to when you come from the city. But give it time. Copper Ridge grows on you."
"Like mold?"
He grins. "Exactly. But the good kind. Cheese, penicillin, this town." He gestures with his bottle. "Place isn't Seattle, but it's got its perks."
I think about Ivy giggling on the porch. About Rivera's nod. About cookies on my counter and the way Gemma's voice sounds when she tells my daughter that Kevin the fern is nervous.
"Maybe," I say.
"That's the spirit. Almost optimistic. I'm so proud." He claps me on the shoulder hard enough to rattle my teeth. "Now go hang with your crew. They invited you for a reason."
He's right. I grab the other two beers and head to the back table where Rivera and Deluca have been joined by Harrison. They make room, and the conversation flows easier than Iexpected---shop talk mostly, but the kind that builds trust. Stories about calls, the quirks of Copper Ridge's geography, which roads flood first in spring.
An hour passes. Then another. By the time I check my phone, it's later than I planned.
"I should get going," I say, standing. "Ivy's with the babysitter."
"Good to have you out, Cap," Rivera says, and there's no edge to it. Just fact.
The drive home, I'm thinking about the nods, the easy conversation, the way Deluca laughed at one of my stories about Seattle traffic. Progress. Real progress.
