8. Mike
Chapter eight
Mike
S tepping onto the porch with my coffee in hand, I take in the sunrise over the mountains.
The morning air is cool, but there’s an edge of dryness that makes me uneasy. Wildfire season always puts everyone on high alert, and this year feels especially tense.
Lulu and my mother have gone to visit my aunt in the city. I’m left alone with Becky, and somehow, it feels just right.
I take a sip of coffee and glance toward the horizon, where faint wisps of smoke are just visible in the distance.
The fires aren’t close enough to be a direct threat to Junction Falls yet, but it’s only a matter of time before the winds shift or the flames grow stronger.
“Mike,” Pete calls from the barn, waving me over.
Setting my coffee mug down, I head toward him, already mentally running through the list of tasks for the day. But before I can get there, my radio crackles to life on my belt.
“All units report to the old sawmill on Highway 12. Structure fire, active flames. Repeat, structure fire.”
My heart sinks. The old sawmill has been abandoned for years, but it’s a tinderbox waiting to go up in flames. Worse, it’s close to the edge of town, where the wildfires have already left the brush dry and brittle.
“I’ve got to go,” I tell Pete, already heading for my truck. He nods, his expression tight with understanding.
***
By the time I arrive at the firehouse, the parking lot is filled with other firefighters’ cars.
From the outside, the firehouse is an impressive brick-and-stone building, standing tall with large bay doors that house the fire trucks and emergency vehicles. The town’s emblem is emblazoned on the side of the building—a symbol of strength and unity. A tall flagpole stands near the entrance, the American flag waving proudly, and a memorial plaque sits at the base, honoring firefighters who have served before.
Inside, the large garage-style bay holds the fire trucks, hoses, and heavy-duty equipment. A row of firefighter gear—helmets, turnout coats, gloves, and boots—hangs neatly on hooks, each labeled with a firefighter’s name.
The high ceilings and industrial-style lighting usually give the space a rugged, functional feel. But right now, it feels too small, as if the walls are closing in. The air is filled with the hum of dispatch radios crackling to life.
The crew is hurriedly suiting up. It;s a small town and many of us are part of the volunteer force. Burt greets me with a grim nod, and we exchange a few words about the strategy for containing the fire.
“We’re short today,” Burt says as we climb into the truck. “A lot of the guys are out helping with wildfire containment.”
I nod, my jaw tightening. “We’ll have to make do.”
The ride to the sawmill is tense, the silence broken only by the hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of the radio. When we arrive, the scene is worse than I expected. Flames are already licking at the edges of the building, black smoke billowing into the sky.
The heat is intense as we jump into action, unrolling hoses and assessing the situation. Burt barks orders, and the team moves like a well-oiled machine, each of us falling into our roles without hesitation.
Hours blur together as we fight the fire, sweat pouring down my back and smoke stinging my eyes. The flames are relentless, consuming everything in their path, but we hold our ground. The goal is to keep the fire contained, to stop it from spreading to the nearby brush and turning into an uncontrollable disaster.
“Mike!” Burt shouts, pointing toward the north side of the building. “We need backup over here!”
I head in his direction, dragging a hose with me. The heat is oppressive, and the roar of the flames drowns out everything else. I’m so focused on the fire in front of me that I almost miss the sound of the roof creaking above.
It happens in an instant. A section of the roof collapses, sending debris raining down. I dive out of the way, but a beam catches my shoulder, knocking me to the ground. Pain shoots through me, sharp and immediate, but I grit my teeth and push myself up.
“Mike!” Burt’s voice cuts through the chaos as he rushes toward me.
“I’m fine,” I manage, though the throbbing in my shoulder says otherwise.
“You’re not fine,” Burt snaps, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the blood seeping through my gear. “You’re done. Get out of here.”
Reluctantly, I let him help me to the truck, where one of the paramedics looks me over. The injury isn’t life-threatening, but it’s enough to sideline me for the rest of the fight. I refuse their offer to go to the ER. Frustration burns hotter than the fire as I sit there, watching my team carry on without me.
By the time we get back to the firehouse, the adrenaline has worn off, and the pain in my shoulder is impossible to ignore. Burt insists on driving me home, muttering something about not trusting me to take it easy.
When we pull up to the ranch, Becky is already waiting on the porch, her face pale with worry. She rushes toward the truck as soon as she sees me, her eyes wide.
“Mike! What happened?” she asks, her voice trembling.
“Just a scratch,” I say, trying to downplay it, but she doesn’t look convinced.
“A scratch doesn’t make you look like this,” she says, her hands hovering near my injured shoulder as though she’s afraid to touch me.
“It was the sawmill fire. I’m fine, Becky. Really,” I sigh, exhaustion weighing heavily on me.
She doesn’t look convinced, but she steps back as Burt helps me out of the truck.
“Keep an eye on him,” Burt tells her before heading back to the driver’s seat. “He’s not going to rest unless someone makes him.”
“Don’t worry,” Becky says, her tone firm. “I’ll make sure he does.”
Burt drives off, and I follow Becky into the house, my steps slower than usual. I can feel her watching me, the worry in her eyes impossible to ignore.
“You should sit down,” she says, guiding me to the couch.
“I’m fine,” I insist, but the look she gives me silences any further protest.
“You’re not fine,” she says, her voice soft but determined. “And until you are, I’ll be here to help.”
Her words hit me harder than I expect, and for a moment, all I can do is nod. I grab a quick shower, careful not to get any water on the bandage the paramedics placed on my shoulder.
As I sink into the couch, my shoulder screaming in protest, I notice a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. B., Becky’s tiny gray kitten, hops up onto the armrest and stares at me with her wide green eyes. She pads closer, sniffing at my injured arm like she knows something’s wrong.
“Hey, B.,” I murmur, managing a small smile despite the throbbing pain. “Are you keeping an eye on me too?”
Becky appears with a first-aid kit and a glass of water, setting them down on the coffee table. “Looks like she’s already taking her job seriously,” she says with a soft laugh.
B. meows, then curls up next to me, pressing her tiny body against my good side as if to offer comfort.
“Smart cat,” I say, glancing at Becky. “She knows how to make someone feel better.”
Becky smiles. “You need to take it easy,” she says. “And like it or not, you’ve got me here to make sure you don’t overdo it.”
The weight of the day finally catches up with me. But as I lean back, Becky’s presence and the kitten’s warmth beside me make the pain and worry feel just a little more bearable.