I check the hives quickly, more for my peace of mind than anything else, looking for queen movement, watching brood patterns, making sure nothing immediate is wrong.
Everything inside the boxes is as it should be; it’s just the world outside that’s gone sideways.
When I finish, my shirt is damp with sweat, and my hands are shaking.
I look to the horizon one more time. The smoke is thicker now.
“Under control,” I whisper, like saying it out loud will make it true. “The fire crews are on it. They know what they’re doing.”
The wind stirs my hair, carrying another thin flurry of ash.
I scoop up the smoker and my tools, and head back toward the house.
Inside, the air feels close and stale, as if the smoke has found its way in through the cracks. I shut the back door a little harder than necessary and lean against it, listening to the tick of the old clock on the kitchen wall.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The mundane sound helps. A little.
I set the smoker by the back step and hang my hat on its hook. My clothes smell of smoke now—not the warm, comforting kind from my grandmother’s old woodstove, but the sharp, choking kind that makes your lungs burn and your eyes sting.
I grab a glass, fill it with water from the tap, and drain it in a few gulps.
My reflection in the kitchen window looks pale and wide-eyed, hair frizzed from the humidity and sleep I didn’t really get.
I should check the news.
Call someone. Make sure everything’s really okay.
Instead, I do what I always do when the world feels too big: I try to shrink it down to the size of my house.
Dishes in the sink.
A dish towel draped over the back of a chair.
A jar of honey on the counter with a spoon left in it from yesterday.
I move through the little kitchen, tightening what’s loose, putting away what’s out, wiping down an already clean counter because busy hands make quieter thoughts.
When my heart finally stops pounding so hard, I head into the front hall to check the mail slot. Sometimes Maeve puts out flyers or community notices when there’s been an event, and with the storm last night…
A thin rectangular shape is lying on the mat.
One envelope. Plain. No logo or colored ink. Just a single name written in neat handwriting.
My name.
Miss Abilene Kentwood
No return address. No stamp.
Someone dropped this off by hand.
An odd sensation crawls up my spine.
