Page 116 of Honeyfires

But tonight, I had this. I had Vera holding me together when I'd fallen apart, loving me through the worst of it, reminding me that I was more than my job, more than my mistakes, more than my trauma.

Tonight, that was enough.

It had to be.

Contributing Conduct

Chapter Twenty-One

The letter arrived the next morning.

Vera was the one who got the mail. She'd taken to collecting it on her way back from her morning walk to the bakery two blocks over, the small domestic ritual she'd developed since moving in, same as the coffee and the humming and the way she always left one lamp on when I was on a late shift. She came through the door with her hair still damp from the shower, a paper bag of pastries in hand, and an envelope held away from her body like it might detonate.

She set the pastries on the counter. Set the envelope on the table.

"It's from the county fire authority," she said, her voice carefully even.

I was on the couch in my oldest sweatpants, which told you everything about how the morning had gone so far. I looked at the envelope. My full name in official type. Perpetua Alves. Return address: San Jacinto County Fire District, Administrative Division.

Neither of us moved for a moment.

"You don't have to open it right now," Vera said.

"Yes, I do."

She sat beside me. Didn't say anything else, just put her hand over mine on the couch cushion and waited.

I picked up the envelope. The paper was heavy, government-issue, the kind of stock that was designed to communicate authority. My name in the window.

I opened it.

The language was formal and precise and completely stripped of the human voice Rodriguez had used in that hospital consultation room. Notice of Proposed Disciplinary Action. Pursuant to San Jacinto County Fire District Policy 4.7, Section 2(b). My name, my employee number, my classification: Helitack Crew Forewoman, Grade 7. The date of the incident. The charges, enumerated.

1. Insubordination: failure to comply with a direct order from a superior officer during an active emergency incident.

2. Unauthorized unilateral command decision resulting in evacuation of assigned position contrary to Incident Commander directive.

3. Contributing conduct in connection with property loss totaling six residential structures.

I read it twice. The third time I stopped at contributing conduct and had to put the paper down on my knee.

"Petra." Vera's voice was quiet.

"It's real," I said. Which was a stupid thing to say, because of course it was real, it had been real since Rodriguez said suspended in the hospital hallway, but there was a difference between a person telling you something and a document existing in the world with your name on it and a case number in the upper right corner. Documents were permanent. Documents could be subpoenaed. Documents were what ended careers.

Vera picked up the letter carefully, read it herself, said nothing for a moment.

"There's a response window," she said. "Fourteen days to respond in writing."

"I know."

"And a union representative—"

"I know." I picked the letter back up, made myself read the rest of it. The proposed consequence: suspension without pay pending outcome of formal review. The review board composition, the timeline, the rights I was being informed of. The right to respond. The right to representation. The right to a hearing.

The right to a hearing. As though that were a gift.

I folded the letter along its original creases, put it back in the envelope, and set it on the coffee table.