Chapter 8
Logan
Most nights in our house follow the same rhythm;
a pattern that is equal parts comfort and survival.
I come home and hang my keys on the chipped hook by the door.
Harper drops her backpack with a clatter as she skids across the cold tile floor, her sneakers squeaking in a playful slide that filled the room with her vibrant energy.
She immediately launches into the little moments of her day, her voice bright with that usual enthusiasm that somehow manages to make every bad day a little less sharp.
The house is homey, a three-bedroom condo in Huntington Beach with cold tile floors and an ocean breeze that slips in through the windows.
Elena and I bought it when we found out she was pregnant because she had always wanted a home close to the beach.
I never had the nerve to let it go after she passed, even if it meant working extra hours.
The walls are dotted with Harper’s drawings, stick figures, and hearts, the same characters showing up again and again.
The desk that sat in the corner of the living room serves as my workstation for the security company I started with last year.
I monitor feeds, review reports, and write up risk assessments for the security firm I work for.
It’s not glamorous, but it pays well and, most importantly, it lets me work from home most days.
That was the deal I made with myself after I switched roles; no more travel, no more overnight jobs. Not after the way Harper used to cry every time I packed a duffel bag.
Back then, the old position had me bouncing between locations. Personal security in Detroit, site inspections up north, sometimes gone for three or four nights in a row. It was good money, but it came at a cost I wasn’t willing to keep paying.
So, I transferred. Took a pay cut, learned to stretch the budget tighter. Anything to be here when Harper woke up and when she fell asleep.
I was plating dinner, chicken and rice, because it’s one of my go-to weeknight meals, when my phone buzzed on the counter. The caller ID flashing: Porter from Security Ops.
My supervisor, who rarely calls outside work hours.
“Hello, Sir,” I answer, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear.
“Evening,” Porter says, his voice brisk. “Got a situation. The in-field supervisor took a bad fall, resulting in a compound fracture. He’s out. We need someone to cover for a couple of weeks, starting Monday.”
My stomach tightens, and I take a silent breath, trying to soothe the rising unease. “Porter, I haven’t done field rotations in over a year.”
“I know,” he says. “But you’ve got clearance, experience, and trust from the client. It’s temporary. Three weeks, tops.”
“I work remote for a reason,” I remind him, already hearing the edge in my voice. “I can’t leave town. My daughter—”
“I get it, man, I do,” Porter cuts in, but there’s no room in his tone for negotiation. “You’re good at what you do, but if we can’t fill this gap, the client might pull the contract. We all lose hours.”
“Porter—”
“Talk it over, but I need an answer by tomorrow. I’ll be straight with you, Logan—if you pass, I can’t guarantee your slot stays full-time. You know how corporate has been.”
The line goes still.
Harper’s humming drifts in the background as she draws at the table, blissfully unaware. Each note she sings feels like a thread anchoring me to this moment, stretching the silence until it becomes almost tangible.
“Yeah,” I say finally, voice low. “I hear you.”
“Appreciate it,” he says. “You’re one of the good ones.”
The call ends.
I set the phone down and exhale, the weight of it pressing against my chest.
Three weeks.
On paper, three weeks doesn’t sound like much. But for us, it means losing our routine: 21 bedtime stories, 42 morning waffles, and countless moments that ground our days.
And then I remember my old babysitter, Miss Jade.
She’d been our safety net, our soft place to land.
She was a retired teacher who lived two doors down.
She’d watched Harper since she was two. From school pickups to bedtime stories to snacks that always involved chocolate chips.
She’d moved to North Carolina last month to help her daughter with her newborn.
We’d sent her off with flowers and a promise to visit. Harper cried the whole car ride home.
Now, I don’t even have anyone I can call. Not family. Not neighbors I trust enough to stay overnight, let alone for weeks.
I run a hand through my hair, staring at Harper, who’s now carefully coloring a picture of a cat wearing a tiara.
“What’s wrong, Daddy?”
I blink. “Nothin’, bug. Just thinking about work.”
She tilts her head, all suspicion and sweetness. “The serious kind of thinking?”
“Yeah,” I admit.
She drops her crayon, frowning. “You have that upside-down face.”
The words knock the air right out of me. “Harper…”
“You said you don’t do that anymore,” she says, small and fierce, her little chin trembling. “You promised.”
“I know, sweetheart,” I say softly, crouching beside her. “I’m tryin’ to find a way not to.”
Her eyes fill. “Then don’t.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
Because we need the money. Because I can’t lose this job. Because being the sole parent sometimes means making choices that break your own heart.
But she’s six, she shouldn’t have to understand that kind of reality.
So instead, I reach out and take her hand. “I’ll figure somethin’ out, okay? I’m not going anywhere without making sure you’re taken care of.”
Her bottom lip wobbles. “Miss Jade would’ve stayed with me.”
“I know,” I whisper. “And if she were here, she would.”
“I miss her.” Tears now streaming down her pink cheeks.
“Me too, Bug.” I say, her small body melting against my chest as her little heartbeat presses against mine, warm and trusting. The most fragile sound in the world.
“I don’t want you to go,” she says into my shirt.
“I don’t wanna go either.”
And we stay like that for a while, the dinner forgotten, the house dim except for the glow from the stove light.
After I tuck her into bed that night, I sit at my desk, staring at the open laptop. The live security feeds flicker on the screen, grainy cameras, empty parking lots, motion sensors pinging every so often.
I used to crave this—movement, unpredictability, adrenaline.
Now all I want is routine.
My phone buzzes.
Security Ops:
Floating status effective
immediately. End date: TBD.
Estimated 3–4 weeks.
Another buzz, seconds later.
Porter: First Assignment:
Overnight detail in Pasadena.
I’ll send the details to your email.
I stare at the screen.
Overnight.
I rub at my eyes and glance at the clock. 10:42 PM.
I know she will be fine, technically. But as I glance at the wall calendar in the kitchen, the weight of those missed moments grows.
Each circled date, already starting to smudge from Harper’s little hands eagerly counting down to each event, marks a memory I don’t want to miss.
In that unspoken way that they silently tally the sacrifices I’m being asked to make.
I scroll through my phone without thinking. Hunter’s name. Cami’s. Then Dani’s.
Her name makes me pause.
I can still hear her laugh, bright and unguarded, echoing through my kitchen a week ago when Harper spilled milkshake all over the counter. The way she said you’re good with her, like it was a fact, not a question.
I stare at the past messages for a moment, thumb hovering.
I don’t know how to explain this kind of exhaustion.
It’s not about sleep, but about the constant weight of being the one who has to hold it all together.
My mind spins, words form and dissolve, leaving only a half-thought hanging in the void.
But somehow, I feel like she’d understand.
Instead, I hesitate, then set the phone down. I’m not about to tell a girl who’s practically a stranger that the look in my daughter’s eyes when she said you promised is destroying me.
I glance down the hallway toward her room. The soft glow of her night-light paints the doorway, her small silhouette curled under the blanket.
“I’ll figure it out,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone.
I always do.
Tomorrow, I’ll start making calls and exploring every available option. I owe it to Harper to try to maintain the stability we’d created.