18. Ash
ASH
Sharon is out of the truck, striding toward the corner building, while Kael and I are still catching our breath. Paradise’s emptiness is unsettling, but one look at this place explains why they live here.
“Come on, boys,” Sharon calls, not bothering to look back. “Walt, we’re goin’ inside, you hear? Be right back.”
He doesn’t respond. He hasn’t responded to anything. He just sits there staring at something only he can see.
Kael hurries after her, his hair still damp with sweat, clothes streaked with ash.
I watch him go, wondering how he can move so easily when my legs feel like lead.
He’s lighter now, relieved, almost glowing.
I’m not there yet. My ears are still ringing, and smoke still clings to the back of my tongue.
A row of five storefronts lines the block, all of them new but trying hard to look old.
Four rise three stories, each in its own costume: one looks like an Edwardian version of my neighbor’s house back in the city, another wears dark beams over white plaster, one is a brick box with serious columns, and the last is a plain rectangle dressed up with neon trim.
Sharon and Walt’s place holds the corner with charcoal-gray siding, a slate tile roof, and big dark-framed windows. The oversized 800 above the door makes it stand out, along with the empty sign perched on the roof.
“Um, shouldn’t we take him to a hospital?” Kael asks, glancing back at the truck, then at me.
“Can,” Sharon says, fumbling with the lock beneath the glass awning. “But it hasn’t helped. Closest town outside the evacuation zone’s prob’ly an hour away. He’ll snap out of it ‘fore we get there.”
Kael hesitates at the threshold. “And shouldn’t we… evacuate?”
“We were. Until your friend called.”
That snaps me out of my daze. I force my legs to move and join Kael at the door. “You talked to Jenny?”
Sharon nods rapidly, leaning toward her open door.
“Said you was calling every number she could find when she couldn’t reach you.
Come on, need your help—” She pauses, finally reading the way we’re both hovering.
“It’s not like the last one. Whole town evacuated yesterday.
Roads are clear. We’ll leave as soon as I grab a few things. ”
“We’re so, so grateful,” I say, stepping inside. “How can we help?”
The interior is an unfinished storefront with bare wood floors and plain white drywall. Light pours in from the front windows and through a plastic-wrapped, glass-paned garage door at the back.
“You two just move in?” I ask.
She lets out a short, high-pitched laugh. “We’ve lived in Paradise for decades. Walt and I are high school sweethearts. Glued ever since.”
I nod at the walls. “I meant the construction.”
“Hon, nothing in Paradise’s older than us now.” A small staircase is tucked behind a wall where a counter might eventually stand. “Up here.”
“These places are incredible,” Kael says as he follows, eyes devouring every detail.
“So they say,” Sharon says. “Can’t take the credit. Recovery Plan’s changing everything ‘round here.” She stops on the landing and glances back at us. “Can’t change the dirt, though.”
Their second-story apartment is charming and clearly lived in. Open bags lie scattered, and stacks of books and albums lean against the wall by the door. They’d been in the middle of evacuating before turning back for us.
“Who’s the artist?” Kael rushes to an easel in the back corner.
Paintings cover every inch of the living room walls. The front has one big window, but the back wall is almost entirely glass, looking down over a small fenced yard from above the still-wrapped garage door below.
“That would be me,” Sharon says. “Light’s the best thing about this place.”
One wall burns with reds, yellows, and oranges, almost flickering while standing at the back. The movement she’s captured on canvas is breathtaking, accurate, and terrifying.
“Are all these yours?” I ask. “They’re… incredible.”
“They give me the willies.” She shivers. “An artist’s job is to go to the canvas, but I sure wish the muse would send me a leaf or a dove for once.”
“Kael’s an artist too,” I say.
“Oh? What do you work with?”
Kael studies a burning tree line, answering, “Oil paints mostly, photorealistic stuff, but I love your modern impressionism.” He glances at the backyard, eyes aglow in a way the fire couldn’t dim.
Watching him talk shop with Sharon is like watching someone come back to life from the inside out.
“I see what you mean about the light. You, uh, ever get creative block?”
“Hogwash,” she says.
“I get what you mean about artists going to the canvas,” Kael says. “But what if nothing comes out?”
“Then paint it white,” she says. “I’d love a white canvas right now. You’d think surviving one inferno like that would be enough.”
Her words finally help me understand. Everything is new. Paradise had already burned once, while I’d been safely in San Francisco, watching smoke columns on the news.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That must have been devastating.”
Sharon touches the swirling orange sky of one painting with a trembling hand.
“Horrible,” she whispers.
“You saved our lives,” I say gently to avoid dragging her back through it. “What did you need help with? We owe you so much—”
A now-familiar high-pitched wail cuts me off. We all flinch and grab for our pockets.
My phone is dead, but Kael finds his and squints at the screen. “Emergency Alert. Wildfire Update.” His lips move as he skims, then his smile blooms, sudden and wide. “The Carter Creek Fire is now CONTAINED.”
Relief surges through me so hard my knees go loose. I want to grab his hand again, to shout, to do anything to mark this moment. Instead I stay still, every cell buzzing with unspent joy. “Contained,” I echo.
Kael finishes, paraphrasing the rest. “Residents south of De Sabla can go home. Follow orders, stay safe. We’re… safe?” He looks up at us, his face bright.
Sharon’s shoulders cave in. The spark in her eyes smothers as she reaches for the back of a chair and sits heavily, covering her mouth.
“Oh! Thank God,” she says. “Thank God.”
Kael glances at me, uneasy, and we both hold our celebration in our chests. We haven’t lived through what she has, and whatever that was is keeping her hand pressed to her mouth long after the words are gone.
“Ms. Sharon?” Kael asks softly. “You okay?”
I find a box of tissues, and she takes one with a shaking hand.
“I’m so sorry we put you through this,” I say. “Again.”
“Oh no.” Sharon wipes her nose. “When your friend told us you were left at Philbrook… We couldn’t just leave you.”
Kael rests a hand on her shoulder. “You didn’t have to, but you saved our lives.”
“And then that tree,” I say. “You risked so much coming for us.”
“Let me make some tea.” Sharon pushes herself up too fast, catching the edge of the chair. “Do you like tea?”
“Yes, please,” we answer together, grateful for the excuse she’s given herself.
“Walt was adamant we go for you,” she says, already moving toward the kitchen.
“Is he… okay?” I ask.
A groan comes from the stairs, and Walt clomps up them, shaking his head.
“A little embarrassed,” he says. “But, afraid I’m back to as good as I get.” His eyes are as misty as his wife’s. He looks from her to us. “I owe you an explanation.”
Part of me wants to tell him he doesn’t. The other part needs to know why someone who’s seen so much fire turned back into it for us.