Chapter 1
The radio crackled to life at 4:38 AM.
Callum Roberts was already awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind running through the day’s roster and equipment checks. Sleep had become a transaction these days—just enough to function, never enough to dream.
“Station 12, we’ve got reports of smoke off Junction Road. Possible brushfire.” The dispatcher’s voice came through clear and measured.
Callum swung his legs over the edge of the bed, muscle memory taking over as he reached for the uniform he’d laid out the night before. Three years of solo parenting had turned preparation into religion.
“Copy that. Engine 12 responding.” He kept his voice low, conscious of the thin walls separating his quarters from where his crew slept.
The station stirred to life around him. Boots hitting floors, murmured voices, the rhythmic snap of suspenders. Callum moved down the hallway, his palm trailing the cool wall, a habit formed long before grief had recalibrated his world.
“Morning, Cap.” Ramirez nodded, already halfway into his turnout gear. The kid was always first up, eager to prove himself.
“Ramirez.” Callum’s nod was economical as his gaze swept the room. “Diaz, Garcia, Wilson—let’s move.”
They loaded up with the quiet efficiency that came from hundreds of drills and real calls. No wasted movement, no unnecessary words. The garage door lifted, revealing the pre-dawn darkness of Bayshore Cove, street lamps still glowing against the navy sky.
Callum climbed into the front seat of Engine 12, the leather worn smooth under his palm. He’d sat in this same spot for eight years now, first as lieutenant, now as captain. The engine roared to life, vibrating through the soles of his boots.
“Dispatch says it’s near the old Palmer property,” Wilson said, checking the tablet mounted to the dash. His voice was steady, the way it always was. Dependable Wilson with four kids and a garage band.
“Probably kids,” Diaz muttered from behind them. “Remember last summer? All those campfires.”
Callum kept his eyes on the road, the familiar curves of Junction Road unfolding in the headlights. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
The smell hit them first—wood smoke with an acrid undertone of burning brush. Then the glow, orange against the hillside, small but determined.
“Looks contained,” Wilson said.
Callum surveyed the scene as they pulled up. The fire had caught in a dry patch of brush about fifty yards off the road, working its way up the slope. Not immediately threatening any structures, but with the dry spell they’d been having, it wouldn’t take much for it to spread.
“Diaz, Ramirez—establish a perimeter. Wilson, get us hooked up. Garcia, check the wind direction.” The commands left his mouth without conscious thought, each word precise and calm.
They moved as one unit, hoses unfurling, the pump engaging with a mechanical whine that had become as familiar to Callum as his daughter’s breathing.
The fire fought back, sparks catching in the breeze, but they had it surrounded within minutes. Callum worked alongside his men, feeling the heat against his face, the weight of the hose in his hands. This was the easy part. Fire followed rules. It responded to pressure, to smothering, to the removal of fuel. It was predictable in its hunger.
Not like grief, which played by no rules at all.
“Cap, I think we’ve got it.” Ramirez’s voice pulled him back to the present.
Callum blinked, realized he’d been staring into the dying flames. “Good work. Let’s do a sweep, make sure we didn’t miss any hot spots.”
They worked methodically, boots crunching over charred earth. The sky lightened around them, gray seeping into black, revealing the contours of the land. Callum’s radio crackled with updates from dispatch—no other incidents, no reports of injuries.
“Looks like it was probably a campfire that wasn’t properly extinguished,” Wilson said, kicking at the blackened remnants of what might have been a log. “Damn lucky the whole hillside didn’t go up.”
Callum surveyed the damage—maybe a quarter acre burned, nothing that wouldn’t recover with the spring rains. “Pack it up. We’ll file the report when we get back.”
The ride to the station was quiet, the adrenaline ebbing, leaving behind the familiar hollow in his chest. Dawn had broken fully now, painting the sky in watercolors above the pines. In another life, he might have pointed it out to Megan, might have pulled over just to watch the colors change. Now, he registered it only as increased visibility, a tactical advantage.
“Anyone need coffee?” Diaz asked as they pulled into the station bay. “I can make a run before shift change.”
“I’m good,” Callum said, already mentally ticking through the paperwork waiting on his desk. “But grab some for yourselves if you want.”
He completed the incident report with all the necessary details—time, location, resources deployed, estimated damage. Chief Branigan would review it later, but there was nothing remarkable to note. Just another call, another fire contained.
When he stepped out of his office, the day crew had arrived, the station humming with fresh energy. Callum nodded to them, exchanged information with the oncoming captain, and headed for his truck. His shift was over, but the day was just beginning.
The drive home took exactly seven minutes in the early morning traffic. Callum counted them off, an old habit from when he and Megan would race to see who could get home faster—him from the station, her from the hospital where she’d worked as a nurse. Seven minutes. Six if he hit the lights right.
His house sat back from the road, shaded by two massive oak trees that were hell on the gutters every fall. The porch light was still on, golden against the white siding. He’d forgotten to turn it off again. The sight of it burning in daylight always left him feeling wasteful, exposed.
As he pulled into the driveway, he spotted Nancy Andrews gathering her things on the porch. His overnight sitter waved when she saw his truck, relief visible on her face even from a distance.
“Morning, Callum,” she called as he approached, her voice hushed. “Sorry, but I’ve got to run—early shift at the hospital today.”
“Thanks for staying late,” he said, reaching for his wallet. “I know the call came in right at your cutoff time.”
Nancy waved him off. “Don’t worry about it. But I really do have to go.” She shouldered her bag and hurried to her car, calling over her shoulder, “She had a bit of a rough night—bad dream. Nothing major.”
Callum watched her drive away, then unlocked the front door. The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the steady tick of the clock above the stove. He set his keys in the ceramic dish Ellie had made at summer camp, a lopsided circle painted with wobbly pink hearts.
Callum stood still for a moment, recalibrating. At the station, he was Captain Roberts, steady and certain. Here, he was just Callum, a father trying not to buckle under the weight of being someone’s entire world.
The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the steady tick of the clock above the stove.
“El?” His voice sounded too loud in the stillness.
No answer. He glanced at his watch—6:47 AM. She wouldn’t be up for a little bit, if he was lucky. Moving through the kitchen, he started the coffee maker, the ritual as automatic as breathing. Three scoops of grounds, fill the water to the line, press start. He stood watching the dark liquid drip into the pot, letting the familiar scent center him.
A soft sound from the living room caught his attention.
Ellie lay curled on the sofa, her small body nearly swallowed by the cushions, one arm wrapped around the stuffed elephant she’d had since birth. A quilt—one of Megan’s, blue and yellow patchwork—was tangled around her legs.
Callum’s chest tightened. She wasn’t supposed to be down here. She was supposed to be in bed, in her room with the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling, the ones Megan had arranged in actual constellations because “if we’re going to do it, we might as well do it right.”
He crouched beside the couch, his hand hovering over Ellie’s shoulder. In sleep, the resemblance to her mother was unmistakable—the same delicate arch of eyebrows, the same slight part to her lips. Sometimes it hurt to look at her, like staring at the sun.
“El,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “Wake up, kiddo.”
Her eyes fluttered open, confusion giving way to recognition. “Daddy? You’re home?” Her voice was husky with sleep.
“Yeah, I’m home. What are you doing down here?”
Ellie pushed herself up, the quilt sliding to the floor. “I had a bad dream. I came to find you, but you weren’t here.” Her lower lip trembled slightly. “I didn’t want to go back upstairs by myself.”
Guilt sliced through him, sharp and familiar. “I’m sorry, El. There was a fire call. I had to go.”
“Was it a big fire?” Her eyes widened, fear and fascination warring in her expression.
“No, just a small one. We put it out quick.” He kept his tone light, matter-of-fact. No need to scare her with details.
“Did people get hurt?”
“No, nobody got hurt. It wasn’t near any houses.” Callum stood, his knees protesting the movement. “Let’s get you upstairs. You’ve got school today.”
Ellie yawned, stretching her arms above her head. “Can I have pancakes?”
The question was so normal, so everyday, that Callum felt something in his chest loosen slightly. “Sure, we can do pancakes.” He glanced at his watch again. “But quick ones, okay? We don’t want to be late.”
He carried her upstairs, her sleep-warm weight against his chest a grounding presence. Her room was a riot of color against white walls—drawings taped up haphazardly, books stacked on every surface, the organized chaos of a six-year-old’s world.
“Get dressed,” he said, setting her down on the edge of the bed. “I’ll start breakfast.”
Downstairs, Callum moved through the kitchen with practiced efficiency. Pancake mix from the pantry, milk from the fridge, one egg. He whisked it all together, listening to the sounds of Ellie getting ready above him—the creak of floorboards, water running in the bathroom.
The first pancake hit the hot griddle with a satisfying sizzle. Callum watched the bubbles form and pop, waited for the edges to set before flipping it. He’d never been much of a cook before, had been perfectly content with toast and coffee. But kids needed real food, regular meals. So he’d learned, reading recipes with the same concentration he gave to fire safety protocols.
“I’m ready!” Ellie announced, skipping into the kitchen in mismatched socks, a purple dress, and a green cardigan. Her hair was half-brushed, sticking up in the back.
“Come here,” Callum said, turning away from the stove. He ran the brush through her hair, working out the tangles as gently as he could. “How do you want it? Ponytail? Braid?”
“Braid, please.” She stood patiently as his fingers worked through the familiar pattern. Three sections, over and under, the way Megan had shown him. “Will you be home for dinner tonight?”
“Should be. It’s not my shift.” He secured the end of the braid with an elastic from his wrist. “Mrs. Peterson will pick you up from school, remember? I’ve got that budget meeting with the town council.”
Ellie’s face fell slightly. “Oh. Right.”
“But I’ll be home by six,” he added quickly. “We can have spaghetti.”
“With garlic bread?”
“Definitely with garlic bread.” He turned back to the stove, flipping the pancake onto a plate and pouring more batter onto the griddle. “Now eat up before these get cold.”
They ate at the kitchen table, Ellie chattering about her class’s upcoming field trip to the aquarium, her friend Zoe’s new puppy, the book they were reading in class about a mouse who could talk. Callum nodded in all the right places, asked questions when appropriate, all while mentally reviewing the points he needed to make at the council meeting later.
“Daddy, are you listening?” Ellie’s voice cut through his thoughts.
“Sorry, what was that?” Callum refocused, saw the slight furrow between her eyebrows.
“I said, can we go to the Harbor Light after school sometime? Zoe says they have the best hot chocolate in the whole world.”
The Harbor Light. The café down by the marina. Callum vaguely recalled a change in ownership a few months back, someone new in town taking over the old place. “Sure, we can do that. Maybe this weekend?”
Ellie’s entire face lit up. “Really? Promise?”
“Promise.” He glanced at the clock above the stove. “Time to brush your teeth. We need to leave in ten minutes.”
The morning routine continued with practiced precision—teeth brushed, lunch packed, backpack checked for homework and permission slips. Callum moved through it all on autopilot, his mind already pulling in multiple directions.
“Got everything?” he asked as they headed for the door.
Ellie nodded, tugging her backpack higher on her small shoulders. “Yep!”
The drive to Cedarwood Elementary took less than five minutes. Callum pulled into the drop-off lane, watching as other parents waved goodbye to their children. Some stood in clusters, chatting and laughing, forming the casual bonds of shared experience. He nodded to the ones he recognized but kept his distance. Friendly but separate—the way he’d been living for three years now.
“Have a good day,” he said as Ellie unbuckled her seatbelt. “Remember, Mrs. Peterson will pick you up.”
“I know.” Ellie leaned across the console and wrapped her arms around his neck, a quick, fierce hug that smelled of maple syrup and strawberry shampoo. “Bye, Daddy! I love you!”
“Love you too, El.” He watched her join the stream of children heading into the building, her purple dress and green cardigan standing out against the sea of more coordinated outfits. She turned at the door to wave, and he lifted his hand in response, waiting until she disappeared inside before pulling away from the curb.
The house was too quiet when he returned. Callum stood in the entryway for a moment, listening to the absence of sound. No cartoons playing in the background, no small feet running across hardwood floors, no questions that began with “why” and seemed to have no satisfactory answers.
He should sleep. His body needed it after the night shift, but his mind was still too wired. Instead, he moved through the house, picking up discarded socks, straightening books, loading the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. Keeping his hands busy had become a strategy for keeping unwelcome thoughts at bay.
In the living room, he folded Megan’s quilt with careful precision, smoothing each crease before setting it over the back of the couch. His gaze lifted to the wall above the fireplace, to the empty space where her photograph had once hung.
He’d taken it down six months ago, telling himself it was time, that three years was long enough to stare at the same frozen moment—Megan on their honeymoon, laughing on a beach in Hawaii, her hair wild in the wind, her eyes squinting against the sun. The frame sat in his closet now, wrapped in an old t-shirt. The wall remained bare, a conspicuous void he hadn’t found the courage to fill with anything else. Just empty space, somehow more noticeable than what had been there before.
Callum stared at the emptiness, feeling the familiar weight settle in his chest. Not sharp anymore, not the breathtaking pain of those first months, but something duller, more permanent. A phantom limb. An absence he’d learned to function around, if not accept.
The silence of the house pressed in around him. He turned away from the wall, from what wasn’t there, and headed upstairs to grab a few hours of sleep before the next item on his endless list of responsibilities. The council meeting. Ellie’s dinner. Homework. Bedtime stories.
One foot in front of the other, one breath after another. The only way he knew how to live now.