“No,” I say quickly. “I mean, yes. But also…” I press my thumb to the bee pendant at my throat, rubbing its tiny wings, trying to smooth my thoughts flat. “It’s more like… it feels wrong not to know. Like there’s a part of me still there, standing in that kitchen, listening to the wind chimes and waiting to see if the fire comes closer.”
Wyatt goes quiet. “We’ll go back as soon as they let us.”
I hope that’s soon.
I don’t know how much more of this I can take.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jesse
Wednesday
If you’d told me a week ago that I’d be drinking whiskey in a fishing cabin while a wildfire tried to eat our valley, I would’ve asked what you were smoking and whether you were willing to share.
Especially with our pretty next-door neighbor sitting with us.
But here we are.
The cabin is dim and warm, lit by firelight and a single lamp that’s doing its best. The kind of light that makes everything softer around the edges.
The world could almost be normal if you squint hard enough.
Outside, the wind nudges the trees and the lake slaps gently against the shore, and every now and then the whole place creaks as if it’s reminding us it’s old and stubborn and not impressed with our problems.
Inside, it’s quiet.
Not silence quiet. Abilene is here, and Marshall and Wyatt are here, and men like us don’t do true silence unless we’re bleeding or grieving. But the cabin has settled into almost a truce.
The kids are asleep. The worst of the panic has eased from “we might die tonight” to “we might not,” which is basically the closest thing to peace we’ve had in days.
Marshall sits at the little table with a beer he’s been nursing for an hour. He’s still dressed, ready to sprint outside and fight a fire with his bare hands if the mood struck. Hat off, hair a mess, jaw tight, holding the entire ranch between his teeth.
Wyatt is on the couch, glasses on, legs stretched out, holding a glass of whiskey, trying to convince himself he’s a relaxed person. His leather-bound notebook rests on his thigh because, apparently, he sleeps with that thing just like other people sleep with childhood stuffed animals.
And me?
I’m perched on the arm of the chair because sitting still feels illegal right now. I’ve got a drink in my hand, mostly so it has something to do besides point at problems or reach for the people I shouldn’t be reaching for.
Then there’s Abilene.
She’s in the corner of the couch beside me, wrapped in a blanket that’s probably older than all of us, knees tucked up, trying to fold herself into a smaller shape.
Her hair is down, loose and soft around her shoulders, as if the cabin itself coaxed it free. Firelight dances over her face, and her hazel-green eyes keep catching the light when she looks up, which is unfair. Deeply unfair.
She doesn’t look like the Abilene I’ve known for years. The one behind the market stall with honey jars lined up, the one on her porch with wind chimes and quiet smiles, the one who always seems half a step away from retreating back into her house.
This Abilene looks… raw.
Her defenses are thinner out here, probably because she doesn’t have her routines to hide behind, and because the worldhas been trying to burn itself down. She’s still shy, still gentle, but there’s a new restlessness under it tonight.
And I feel it.
A live wire stretched between us.
We talk. We sip. We pretend this is normal.
Wyatt tells a story about a goat he once tried to treat for a rash that ended with him running across a pasture holding a bottle of ointment while the goat headbutted him with a personal vendetta.
