Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 32231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
“Clay.” She steps back to let me in. “You didn’t have to come.”
“I’d never leave you out in the cold,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her mouth tips. It’s not a smile; it’s something softer, something that says she heard what I didn’t mean to give away and she’s putting it in her pocket for later. “The thermostat clicks,” she says. “But the heater just coughs like a dying dragon and then gives me the middle finger.”
I follow her down the basement stairs. The little rental is a patchwork—found rugs, a chipped table, a clay wind chime that sings when the door opens and freezes when it shuts. Ember in a house is like a candle in a jar: everything takes on the warmth, whether it deserves it or not.
The furnace sulks against cinderblock. I kill the power, pop the panel, and crouch. Dirty flame sensor, easy fix. I pull a rag from my back pocket and rub the carbon off, hands working on muscle memory while my mind keeps playing that tailboard scene on repeat.
Dani, I can hear Gabe say again. And the waiting.
“Will it live?” Ember asks from the stairs, hugging her arms like she’s not sure if she’s cold or just braced.
“It’ll try,” I say, slotting the sensor back and tightening the screw. “Filters are in the coat closet. Behind the avalanche of coats. Bring me one.”
She pads off, socks silent. I stand, listen to the quiet of a house that doesn’t know us yet. The kind that will, if we’re stupid enough to let it.
She returns with a filter and a breath that fogs. I take both.
“I’m sorry,” she says while I slide metal into metal. “About earlier.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“It felt wrong. Hearing your story like that. I wanted you to tell me. Or not tell me. But get to decide.”
I snap the panel closed. “Gabe doesn’t always think before he shares.”
“Sounds familiar.” The corner of her mouth lifts. “I do that too.”
“You do it louder,” I say, hitting the power. The furnace hesitates, then wakes with a low hum. The flame catches, steady. “There we go.”
Heat in the bones of a house always comes like a slow apology. It crawls up walls, slips under doors, puts hands around things that forgot they had edges. Ember leans closer to the unit like she can thank it. I wipe my palms on the rag and step back.
“Clay,” she says to the flame. “How long were you with her?”
“Dani?” I keep my eyes on the pilot. “Since we were kids. Off and on in high school. On for real after bootcamp.”
“And the fire,” she says quietly. “You were there.”
“I was around the corner.” I feel the old iron door swinging shut behind me. I push a boot against it, keep it open just enough to breathe. “Back then we didn’t roll two engines for a single-family alarm. Just us, nozzle and driver. I went in to check and it flashed. I backed out, like I was trained. Radioed. Waited.”
Ember’s breath is careful. “She was inside.”
It’s strange what brains keep, what they make up later. “But there was a load-bearing wall we didn’t know was rotten. It took the kitchen. By the time the second engine got there—” I break off. The door wants to slam. “Don’t matter what we might’ve done. What happened is what happened. She was gone.”
Silence in a basement is different. It adds weight to the things you don’t say.
“I’m sorry.” Ember’s voice doesn’t reach for me; it lets me come to it. “That you had to wait. That you have to live with the waiting.”
I prop my shoulder against the cold wall. “All I do is stand where I’m told until the worst part passes. That’s the job.”
“And the life?”
I huff a laugh that never smiles. “Same rules. You push feelings back behind the line. You keep your head clear. You don’t get sloppy. You leave before the debris shifts.”
Ember rubs her palms together like she can knit heat with friction. “I throw myself into the room and start painting.”
“That tracks,” I say dryly.
“Shockingly, my method is less safe.”
“Shockingly,” I agree.
She looks at me, head tipped, studying like she’s sighting a horizon. “You ever get tired of safe?”
“Every day,” I say. “But tired doesn’t stop a building from falling.”
“Sometimes,” she says, “it keeps you from stepping inside at all.”
We stare at each other across a concrete floor and a pretend engagement. She’s right. I hate that she’s right. I respect the hell out of her for saying it anyway.
“Come on,” I say, jerking my chin toward the stairs. “Let’s see if this old beast can thaw your toes.”
Upstairs, the cabin is already shifting toward warm. Ember pads into the tiny kitchen, puts a kettle on the stove, then turns to lean against the counter like she’s braced for impact.