Sharon sets down a pot of tea and little plates of cookies, crackers, meat, and cheese on a quilted runner that looks like it’s seen three different kitchens and twice as many moves. Their things are old, far older than their home, and it feels like stepping back into the house where I grew up.
Sharon’s easy kindness overlays the memory of her white-knuckling that pickup through embers and of her shoulder slamming into a fallen tree to save our lives. Gram hid that same California steel under soft cardigans and lemon cookies. She raised me to believe I was a blessing, not a burden, teaching me that true strength is a radical act. That kind of resilience takes both muscle and heart. Looking at Sharon, I can almost hear Gram’s voice in my head, reminding me of the mantra she lived by: no struggle, no strength.
Walt, on the other hand, still looks like he hasn’t come back from the fire at all.
“They say Camp Fire was the deadliest wildfire in state history,” he says, once he’s sipped his tea and gotten some air into his lungs. “Started in Pulga, just down the road. There wasn’t time to do a damn thing about it.”
“We’d been hiking the day before,” Sharon adds, close enough that her shoulder brushes his. “So we slept in. Couldn’t have been past eight in the morning.”
“It was like waking into a nightmare,” Walt says. “House was right here, same corner, but out the windows it was just black and red.”
“Like Dante’s Inferno,” Sharon murmurs, staring somewhere past us.
“When we went out, it looked like the gates of hell had opened.” He jerks his chin toward the wall of paintings. “I keeptelling Sharon, if she really wants to show people what it was like, she should paint the whole damn thing black.”
“It’s impressionistic,” Sharon huffs, nudging him. “Kael gets it.”
“They’re incredible,” I say. “It sounds terrifying.”
“We left everything,” Walt says. “Hopped in our car and drove straight into another on our driveway.”
“That’s why I’m the driver now,” Sharon says. “There was no way for him to see it. Never imagined traffic backing up to Fir and Almond, let alone spilling into the yard.”
Walt rubs a hand over his mouth. “People were trying to get around Skyway. Driving over curbs. Bumper-to-bumper everywhere. Didn’t even care we hit ’em. Never did find out who it was.”
“We’re still here,” Sharon says, reaching for prosciutto as if she needs something to do. “Not like we’re hiding.”
“If only,” Walt mutters.
Ash shifts, uneasy. I catch it and try to warn him with a look, but he barrels ahead anyway.
“You don’t have to relive this if you don’t want to,” he says. “We already made you relive it once today.”
Walt lays his hand over Sharon’s. His eyes stay on her. “Camp Fire is why I froze today. Put you both, put my wife, in danger. I need to talk about it, if that’s all right.”
The urge to tell him he doesn’t have to is strong. Instead I hear myself say, “My mom left when I was ten. Gram made me see a therapist. Took a long time before I said anything real, but… it helped.”
Walt squeezes Sharon’s fingers, then gives me a droopy smile. “I’ll… look into it,” he says.
Sharon kisses his cheek. “Been begging him for years,” she tells us, equal parts fond and frustrated.
“I swear by it,” I say. “Anger, trauma, frustration—art’s my therapy now. Maybe you want to join Sharon.”
“She doesn’t even like it when I watch her.”
“Oh, Walt, finish up,” Sharon says, giving his shoulder one last squeeze as she stands. “Boys, will you stay for dinner? It’s no trouble. After Walt’s finished, I’ll open the liquor cabinet, and we can celebrate being alive.”
Ash meets my eyes over the table. We both know there’s no universe where we say no.
“How can I help?” I ask, pushing my chair back.
“Let me see…” Sharon crosses to the fridge, pulls it open, and hums at the shelves. “We do homemade pizza on Sundays. Easy enough to double.”
“Perfect,” Ash says, already standing. “Put us to work.”
Soon there’s flour on the table and the oven ticking hotter. Sharon presses dough into pans with quick, practiced hands. Ash chops peppers and onions while I slice mozzarella.
Walt leans against the counter, trading tea for wine, as he slips back into memory with his eyes fixed on the dough.
