5. Kael
KAEL
We hadn’t even exchanged numbers, and my mind is already composing scenes of our possible future life together. My imagination went feral the second his hand landed squarely on my… well. Memorable first encounter, to say the least.
The tech guy and the artist. My brain slots us into a story before I can stop it.
I picture his sleek, minimalist apartment with stark white walls punctuated by my canvases.
He drags me to his nerdy game night, some Dungeons & Dragons thing with spreadsheets and dice, and I charm his friends with ridiculous backstories.
He loves that about me—the way I spin a yarn, the way I see colors he never noticed.
We’re a study in contrasts, two worlds colliding in a quirky, messy way that somehow works.
I do this, I know. One tiny spark, and my head fills in years.
Then I remember Alistair.
Ash probably worships him. That thought pops the fantasy fast, wiping away the fact that Ash is also taller and more muscular than me, which aren’t even difficult boxes to check.
The welcome packet promises exactly what Alistair demanded: mindset workshops, transformation, “recalibrating your narrative.” I’d skimmed right past the budget charts and FIRE acronyms and circled all the vague “growth” language.
It sounds like the kind of bullshit deep dive into this new movement that will thrill him.
I find my bunk on the second floor and unload my blanket, paint supplies, and well-worn bag. My roommate’s side is already staked out, marked by a new backpack, a pristine Patagonia jacket, and a stickerless laptop tossed carelessly on the bed. Trusting. Or just rich.
Sketchpad and Rocky in hand, I head downstairs for the main room and The FI Escape kickoff.
The main room’s filling up when I slip in from the back.
Beyond the double doors, lofi hip-hop plays under the chatter.
The space smells like citrus and cedar, the rustic fieldhouse fantasy complete with vaulted ceilings and exposed beams above dark patterned carpet and rows of metal folding chairs.
It’s a weird mashup between summer camp and conference hotel.
The fifty-odd seats are occupied by more softshell jackets staring into open laptops. I don’t see a single other sketchpad.
Laptops weren’t on the packing list. For a second, I consider retreating to a corner.
Strange crowd for a strange “art” movement.
But it wasn’t the marketing that got me here.
I won’t chase this forever, but I need Alistair’s money.
It makes my toes curl knowing he knows it. This is still art. Right?
Commit. I sidestep through clusters of chattering attendees to an empty seat in the middle row.
If Alistair keeps depositing checks, I’ll learn about FI. If that means cozying up to tech bros in matching jackets, so be it.
“Hi! I’m Kael.” I offer a hand to my neighbor.
“Karen!” She matches my overdone enthusiasm beat for beat, her hair bouncing with our handshake. “Welcome to The FI Escape!”
She sounds like a walking advertisement, but she’s friendly and, blessedly, not glued to a screen.
“Thanks. Everyone seems, uh, really into it. But what’s with all the technology?” I nod toward the sea of laptops.
“People have different approaches, I guess. I’m volunteering for a free ticket.” She taps her nametag, which reads, Ask Me About The FI Escape.
“First-timer here.” I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “How long have these been going on?”
“Well, it started in the early ’90s with—”
“Vicki and Joe? Yeah, I’ve heard. But the retreat itself… I literally heard about it last night. It sounded brand new. I’m surprised to see so many people… these people,” I add, cautiously.
“You heard about FIRE last night, and now you’re here?” Karen’s eyes widen. Her excitement is infectious. She stands, gathering attention like a conductor rallying an orchestra. “This guy is committed!” she announces. “He heard about FIRE last night, and he’s already here!”
A smattering of applause ripples through the room. Someone pats my shoulder. A few others stare with a mix of awe and disbelief.
I glance past them and spot Ash at the back. He’s laughing, a warm, easy laugh. When he notices me watching, his hand lifts in a small, almost shy wave, like a tech bro breaking protocol to say hi, which shouldn’t thrill me like it does.
He’s tall from this distance, all straight lines and broad shoulders in a navy T-shirt that does nothing to hide how much time he spends at the gym.
Unlike me, everything seems to obey this man.
His dark hair is pushed back, his stubble neat, and a black watch snug on his wrist. He’s exactly the kind of guy I roll my eyes at in the city…
and exactly the kind my body turns toward anyway.
“Welcome, welcome!” An amplified voice booms from the front podium. “To The FI Escape!”
I clap along with everyone else, the forced energy reminding me of a high school pep rally. Karen’s name tag, the founder worship, the too-bright enthusiasm….
Is this a cult?
Cool, cool. As long as they don’t start passing out the punch, I’m good.
“I’m Bart,” the man at the lectern continues, “and this is the fifth Bay Area Escape. Any other five-timers out there?”
There’s a couple of enthusiastic shouts and claps, followed by chuckles.
“What about first-timers?” Bart asks.
I join Karen and several others in raising hands, my applause noticeably less fervent but hopefully not so subdued it draws unwanted attention from my fellow cultists.
“Whether you’re already FIRE’d, just starting, or in the ‘boring middle’”—Bart pauses for effect—“we all have friends and family telling us we’re chasing something crazy.”
His laugh makes others follow, and I add a tight nod and smile, careful not to make eye contact. Okay, Cult Leader Bart. Got it.
“But financial independence is a worthy pursuit,” he goes on. “This room is filled with people who get it.”
Everyone nods, faces lit with that shared sense of belonging.
Do I get it? Do I want to? My jaw aches from holding the smile in place, but I don’t dare drop it when everyone else is so… pumped.
“We’ll keep it light during the kickoff, because today is all about making connections,” Bart says. “But I’m very excited to introduce…” He lets anticipation build.
I tune him out and lean toward Karen. “Psst. Karen.”
She looks annoyed but tilts her head closer. “Yes?”
“You keep saying FIRE,” I whisper. “But what do the R and E stand for?”
Her expression softens into something almost maternal. “Financial Independence, Retire Early.”
Uh-oh.
I straighten, the puzzle pieces snapping into place. I replay my whole conversation with Ash in fast-forward, cringe, mutter an apology to my other neighbor, and start edging my way out of the row.
“Co-host of the new high-growth financial podcast, Skinny Fat FIRE, Asher Pierce!” Bart announces, his voice booming.
“Sorry,” I whisper, stepping on someone’s foot. “Excuse me, just need to get through…”
The audience erupts into applause, but I’m the only one standing.
“Looks like I’ve scared someone off already.” Ash’s amplified voice fills the space, and when his eyes land on me, his expression flickers from joking to something more like hurt. “I’m kidding,” he adds quickly. “No bathroom pass required.”
My cheeks go red hot. Of course he’d call it out. Of course they’d all look. A few people laugh, but most just watch my awkward shuffle through the packed row.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Just… booked the…”
My sketchpad, rolled tight in my fist, bumps knees as I squeeze past. My chest tightens, and a quick, high-pitched laugh squeaks out of me.
“Let’s get started,” Ash says, voice smoothing back into host mode.
But his eyes stay on me. The murmur of the crowd dulls, and under his confidence the room shrinks until it’s just the two of us with his broad shoulders and easy stance behind the lectern. I owe him an explanation.
“It’s not you!” I blurt, recreating a fresh pocket of silence. Oh shit. Another nervous laugh bubbles out of me. “Ha. Don’t drink and book retreats, kids. I thought this was an art retreat…”
No one laughs. A wall of puffer jackets and blank faces stares back.
“Hey! Buddy!” The woman I’m half-crouched in front of shoves my shoulder, tipping me into the aisle.
Ash slumps as every head swivels away from him and toward me.
I backpedal to the last row, face burning. “Sorry,” I mutter. “Please, uh… carry on with your… ceremony.”
The double doors don’t give when I hit the push bar. I grit my teeth, give a half-smirk to no one, and full-butt ram the bar. The doors fly open, and I stumble out.
Not exactly a graceful exit. My jaw aches. I open and close my mouth to work out the tension.
After a blur of jamming my blanket, paints, and sketchpad back into my bag upstairs, I’m back on the trail, barreling toward the parking lot with the whole humiliating scene still stuck to me.
It’s fine. I booked the wrong retreat. No big deal. I’ll watch a video online about Futurist Illusionism. Or whatever.
I’ll never see these people again. Somehow, that doesn’t help.
Why did it have to be the wrong retreat filled with these people? So focused on money, so self-assured, so… rich. Rich people always make me uneasy. They move in different circles, speak a different language, and operate on a different plane.
Long before Alistair Blackwood entered my life, Gram always told me that if I wasn't careful, the world would convince me that money equaled merit. She was a big-hearted California liberal who saw the Bay Area’s focus change from revolution to riches, and she quoted Malcolm X like scripture: “If you’re not careful, the newspapers will have you hating the people who are being oppressed and loving the people who are doing the oppressing.
” She would’ve hated that room, with all its polite talk of accumulation while smugly shaking their heads at my exit.
She hated rich people because she loved my mother.
Buck, my trusty Buick Century, is a welcome sight in the parking lot.
I toss my bag, blanket, and paints into the trunk and kneel by the driver-side door to unlock it.
The power locks died years ago, but the familiar ritual offers a small, solid comfort.
This is my car, Gram’s before me. Reliable, dependable Buck.
The key clicks in the lock, and the door pops open, revealing the vinyl wood-grain dashboard and the worn leather seats, molded to the shapes of the people who’ve ridden here. My butt-print is permanently etched into the passenger seat as my designated spot until Gram died.
I slide behind the wheel, into the seat she used to occupy, turn the key in the ignition, and…
Nothing.
“Come on, Buck.” I channel Gram’s patient encouragement. “Come on, now. I need you to get me out of here. I need a retreat with a bunch of rich tech bros like I need…”
I hold my breath and try again. The gauges jump, the engine whirrs weakly, and then… silence.
I exhale.
It’s the battery. It’s always the battery. That’s why the jumper cables live in the trunk.
I pop the hood, grab them, and look around the parking lot. If I’m lucky, somebody will pull up and save me from having to march back inside and beg for help. As has been established for practically my whole life, though, I’m not lucky.
I glance at the cars on either side. On Buck’s right is a Subaru. On the left, a Tesla, which is useless to me because even car batteries have class hierarchies now. I try the Subaru, running my fingers along the edge of the hood for the latch. Nothing. I press harder. Still nothing.
“Okay,” I mutter. “Not the Subaru.”
So much for a quick fix. Which means going back to the fieldhouse for help, and the thought of walking into that main room again makes my knees lock.
Maybe there’s someone at registration.
Rocky, say something.
I reach into my jacket pocket for his smooth, cool surface and rub the painted tie and eyes, channeling my pet rock’s catastrophizing.
What if they’re doing some kind of human sacrifice? Any kind of sacrifice, really. Wouldn’t surprise me to see the headline “Rich Techies Perform Ritual in Forest.”
What if they’re waiting for me to come back? What if someone sabotaged Buck’s battery, just to make sure I’d return?
Rocky Balboa is my prepper, and as his thoughts burrow in, I pull out my phone and open the voice recorder app.
It’s a financial retreat, I reason with him. Think of all that Patagonia. They’re probably discussing tax strategies. Chanting about IRAs.
Whatever. Recording is silly, but in some off, off chance… it might be genius.
When I get back the registration table is deserted. The greeter’s clearly joined whatever is happening beyond the main room’s closed double doors. I don’t hear any chanting, nor is candlelight flickering under the jamb. That’s something. I crack one door and slip inside.
Bart is back at the lectern. The two projector screens show the same slide: First to $1M.
“…what we’re all here for,” Bart is saying. “But we know who comes to The FI Escape. So of course we’ll select a winner, voted by this room, on three criteria: speed, likelihood of reaching one million dollars, and creative presentation. The winners will each take home five hundred bucks.”
The room buzzes. My own desperation hums in harmony. Five hundred dollars is more than this whole weekend cost.
“Invest that much monthly for thirty years,” Bart adds, “and you’ll find one way to a million.”
The room laughs. My jaw drops.
Maybe jumping Buck’s battery can wait. My pride and time are both worth less than the money I’ve just wasted. If I can earn that back… then I’ll go home, fire up a video on the actual art movement, and call it a win.
“Your partners are listed on this slide,” Bart says, clicking to a two-column list of names.
“Go find a spot somewhere in this beautiful campground. Get to know each other. You have three hours, starting now. And oh! It’s been dry lately, so be aware there’s a fire watch in effect.
No campfires while playing FIRE! Have fun! ”
I squint up at the screen through my glasses, scanning for my name.
There it is. KAEL WRIGHT — ASHER PIERCE.