Page 119 of Honeyfires

In the kitchen, Vera was making dinner. I could hear her moving around, the clink of dishes, the sizzle of something in a pan. She was humming softly, some melody I didn't recognize, acting like this was normal. Like I wasn't watching my career burn on live television. Like I hadn't just become the most hated person in San Jacinto.

The news anchor's voice cut through my spiral: "A controversial decision by helitack crew member, Portugal-born immigrant Perpetua Alves, may have cost six families their homes in Wednesday's wildfire in Eagle Ridge.”

Portugal-born immigrant. They'd led with that, made sure everyone knew I wasn't from here, wasn't one of them. Never mind that I'd been in this country since I was three and become a citizen at eight years old, had served in its Army and returned a shellshocked veteran, had spent eight years protecting its citizens from fire. I was still other, still foreign, still somehow less American than the people whose homes had burned.

The segment cut to interviews with homeowners, their faces drawn with grief and anger. A middle-aged man stood in front of a foundation and ash, what had once been his house reduced to rubble and twisted metal.

"She disobeyed orders," he said, his voice shaking. "If she'd held her position like she was supposed to, maybe our house would still be standing. Maybe we'd still have something left."

I wanted to argue, wanted to scream at the TV that the fire would have jumped anyway, that the data proved it, that six homes lost was better than six firefighters dead. But the words stuck in my throat, heavy and useless.

The news anchor's perfectly manicured expression shifted to something approximating sympathy. "While no firefighters were killed in the incident, local officials estimate property damage in excess of two million dollars. Six families have been displaced, with contents of the homes, irreplaceable photos, heirlooms, and personal belongings lost in the blaze."

They showed aerial footage of the devastation. Six blackened lots where homes had stood, the surrounding forest scorched and skeletal. It looked apocalyptic. It looked like I'd caused the end of the world.

Captain Rodriguez appeared on screen, standing in front of Station 19, his face carefully composed. "We're conducting a thorough investigation into the incident. At this time, I can't comment on specific personnel actions, but I can assure the community that we take these matters seriously."

Carefully worded. Diplomatic. Saying everything and nothing at the same time.

The segment continued with the anchor's remarks: "Forewoman Alves has been suspended pending the outcome of the investigation. The families affected by the fire are currently staying with relatives or in temporary housing provided by local relief organizations."

My hands were shaking again, that fine tremor that started in my fingers and spread up my arms, the one that appeared whenever the world got too heavy to carry.

The TV droned on, but I wasn't hearing it anymore. I was back on that ridge, feeling the wind shift, watching the fire crown, making the split-second decision that had saved six lives, including mine, and cost me everything else. Would I make the same call again? Yes. Absolutely. Without hesitation.

Did that make the consequences any easier to bear? Not even a little.

"Don't watch that."

Vera's voice cut through my thoughts. She was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, a dish towel in her hands, her face tight with concern. She crossed the room in three strides and turned off the TV, the screen going dark and silent.

She sat beside me, close enough that I could smell the faint scent of whatever she'd been cooking. Close enough that I could feel her warmth through the space between us.

"I need to see what they're saying," I said, my voice hoarse, raw.

"They don't know what happened. They weren't there."

The words were meant to comfort, but they landed wrong, scraping against my raw edges. "Neither were you."

I regretted it the instant it left my mouth. Saw her flinch like I'd struck her, saw her blue eyes go wide and then wet, saw her face crumple in a way that made my heart constrict painfully.

"I'm sorry." The words tumbled out, desperate and clumsy. "I didn't mean—"

"I know you're scared." Her voice was thick with unshed tears, each word controlled, like she was barely holding it together. "But you don't get to push me away."

"I'm not trying to."

"Feels like you are." She looked at me with those enormous eyes, and I could see the hurt in them, the fear that maybe I'd use this crisis as an excuse to shut her out, to retreat into the walls I'd spent so long building.

She was right. I was pushing. Because if she got too close, she'd see what everyone else was seeing, that maybe I had fucked up. That maybe saving my crew wasn't worth destroying six families' lives. That maybe the Portugal-born immigrant with the intimidating tattoos and all the war trauma should have just followed orders like she was supposed to.

And if she saw that, if she saw me as clearly as those news cameras did, she might realize I wasn't worth the trouble. Wasn't worth loving. Wasn't worth standing by while the world tore me apart.

The silence stretched between us, heavy with everything I couldn't say.

Then Vera moved. Just slipped wordlessly into my arms, pressing her face against my neck, her small frame fitting perfectly against mine like she'd been made to occupy exactly this space. Her arms wound around my neck, holding on like I might disappear if she loosened her grip.

"Sorry," she whispered into my skin, and I could feel her tears, hot against my cheek.