Page 117 of Honeyfires

"They listed the homes as contributing conduct," I said. "Like I burned them down."

"You didn't."

"The letter doesn't propose to know that."

Vera was quiet for a moment. Then she reached out and picked up the envelope, walked to the kitchen counter, and set it consciously beside the paper bag of pastries. Two objects: the thing that was trying to end my career, and the thing she'd picked up because she knew I hadn't eaten.

"I'm going to get you a lawyer," she said. "A real one. Someone who handles labor disputes and agency reviews. Not just the union rep."

"Vera—"

"I have savings." She turned to look at me, and her expression had that quality it got sometimes, the one I'd seen when she'd stepped in front of me in the grocery store. Clear and decided and absolutely without negotiation. "This is what savings are for."

I looked at her across our kitchen, this woman who had gotten up this morning and gone for a walk and bought pastries and carried in a letter that was trying to take away the thing I'd built my whole post-war life on, and I thought: I would burn down everything for her and she would rebuild it for me.

"Thank you," I said.

She crossed the room, sat back down beside me, and handed me a pastry. "Eat something. Then we're going to read that letter again together, and we're going to figure out what comes next."

I took the pastry. The coffee she'd made was on the side table, already exactly right.

"Okay," I said.

"Okay," she said.

Walking into the station felt like a death march.

The morning sun was already brutal, turning the asphalt into a mirror of heat that shimmered and wavered like the air above a fire. I'd driven here in a fog, my hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, my mind replaying Rodriguez's words on an endless loop. Suspended. Pending investigation. Two weeks minimum, he'd said. Two weeks that could stretch into forever if the review board decided I'd crossed a line too far to come back from.

I'd been here eight years. Station 19 had become more than just a workplace—it was my home, my family, the place where I'd rebuilt myself after the Army had broken me down and put me back together all wrong. These people had seen me at my worst, had pulled me through the nightmares and the panic attacks, had taught me that I could still be useful, still save lives, still matter.

And now I was being escorted out like a criminal.

The station door felt heavier than usual, or maybe that was just my hands, shaking again despite the morning heat. Inside, the familiar smells hit me, the coffee and diesel fuel and that particular scent of smoke that never quite washed out of the walls. The place was too quiet. Usually there'd be voices, laughter, the clatter of equipment being cleaned and checked. But today the silence pressed down like a weight, suffocating and thick.

Captain Rodriguez was waiting for me in the equipment bay, his expression carefully neutral. Professional. The kind of face he wore when delivering bad news to families, when telling someone their home was gone or their loved one hadn't made it out. I'd seen that face before, but never directed at me.

"Alves." He nodded once. "We need to get this done quickly. Crew's out on a training run, but they'll be back within the hour."

Of course they are, I thought bitterly. Can't have them watching their former forewoman turn in her gear like some kind of disgrace.

"Understood, Captain."

The words felt foreign in my mouth. Too formal. Too distant. Rodriguez and I had shared countless shifts together, had fought fires side by side, had saved each other's lives more times than I could count. And now we were reduced to this—captain and suspended firefighter, all professionalism and careful distance.

"Radio first," he said, holding out his hand.

I unclipped it from my belt, the weight of it suddenly immense. This radio had been my lifeline for eight years, had carried my voice across fire lines and up canyon walls, had been the thread connecting me to my crew when smoke obscured everything else. I placed it in Rodriguez's palm, and the loss of it felt like losing a limb.

Next came the protective equipment. My helmet, scratched and dented from years of use, the stickers from different fires peeling at the edges. My turnout coat, heavy with the memory of flames, the reflective tape dulled by smoke. My gloves, molded perfectly to my hands from countless hours of work. Each piece felt like a part of my identity being stripped away, leaving me raw and exposed.

"ID badge." Rodriguez's voice was quieter now, but still firm.

I fumbled with the clip, my fingers clumsy. The badge had my photo from eight years ago—younger, harder, fresh from the Army and still carrying the desert in my eyes. Forewoman Perpetua Alves, Helitack Crew. I stared at it for a moment, memorizing the words, wondering if I'd ever get to wear them again.

"You'll be notified when the investigation concludes," Rodriguez said as I handed over the last of my gear. "Until then, you're not to enter station property or have contact with crew members in any official capacity."

The words were scripted, required, but they still felt like a knife between my ribs.