I hang up the phone and let it fall onto the counter with a clatter. I press my forehead against the cool wood of the cabinet. The town is falling apart outside, and I’m in here, my body staging its own personal apocalypse.
The next call is harder. My thumb hovers over my mother’s contact name. I have to do it. She’ll worry if she hears about the Rift flare and can’t get a hold of me.
I take a deep breath and press call. She picks up on the second ring.
“Caroline? Thank God. I was just about to call you. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay, Mom. Just staying at home. It’s crazy out there.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” she says, her relief palpable through the phone. “I was watching the news. They said the Rift flared. I was so worried. You’re safe at home?”
“Yes, I’m safe.” The irony is bitter. I’m not safe at all. I’m a prisoner in my own body. “The doors are locked.”
“Good. You stay there. Don’t go out for any reason. It’s too dangerous.”
“I won’t.”
We talk for a few more minutes, her recounting what the news is saying, me making vague, reassuring noises. When I finally hang up, the silence of the house rushes back in, louder than before. I pour a cup of the tea, my hands still trembling.
The liquid is a deep, murky green. I bring the cup to my lips, blowing on the steam before taking a sip. It’s bitter, earthy. It does little to soothe the fire inside me. If anything, the warmth of the liquid just adds fuel to the flames.
I carry the cup back to the living room and sink onto the sofa. The tea is a temporary fix, a flimsy bucket against a tidal wave. The pre-heat is here. I can feel it winding tighter, a coiled spring ready to snap.
The heat that follows will be a firestorm. And I’m standing in the middle of it, holding a box of matches, as the faces of Damon, Griffin, and Silas are flash through my mind.
Rune of Restraint:
Inscribed on silver, it cools the blood when fire rises.
The fluorescent lights of the airport terminal hum, grating on my already frayed nerves. I’m leaning against the counter, my passport and boarding pass spread out on the scratched surface. The woman on the other side, whose name tag reads “Brenda,” has a patient, practiced smile that doesn’t do a thing to soothe the coiled tension in my gut.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she says for the third time, her tone unchanging. “All flights into Willowbrook are grounded until further notice. The weather service is reporting some kind of anomalous atmospheric event. It’s being described as a localized hurricane.”
“A hurricane?” I repeat, the word tasting like ash. “In the middle of the mountains? That’s not possible.”
“I’m only relaying the information I have, sir.” Her smile remains fixed, a brittle mask. “It’s a no-fly zone. For everyone’s safety.”
I left. I just packed my bag and left. The thought has been a loop in my head since I boarded the first plane out of Chicago. I’d gotten the call from Rosehill to get back to work. It was duty. But the way I left things with Caroline… a hasty text, a promise to call. It felt wrong. I hadn’t even said goodbye to her.
So I’d called my captain. I’d asked for a few days off. An emergency, I’d said. A personal one. He’d understood. And now I’m here, so close I can almost taste the pine-scented air of home, and I’m being told I can’t go in.
“I have to get there,” I say. I lean forward, my hands flat on the counter. “It’s an emergency. I’m a firefighter. My town needs me.”
I pull out my wallet, flipping it open to my department ID. The laminated card, with my picture and the Fire & Rescue insignia, is a familiar weight in my hand. I slide it across the counter toward her.
Brenda’s eyes flick from my face to the ID and back again. The professional smile finally wavers. She picks up the ID, studying it. “Griffin Clarke. Rosehill Fire Department.”
“That’s right.”
“But that’s not in Willowbrook, sir.”
“I know. I was on assignment in another town, but this is where I live.” I hand her my driver’s license. “See, born and raised. I have to be in town today. People are relying on me, Brenda. I can give you my boss’s number if that will help.” I have now resorted to bluffing. “He can vouch for me.”
She sighs, the sound heavy with resignation. She taps a few keys on her keyboard, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Okay. I can’t get you a direct flight. Nothing is getting through that airspace. But maybe… maybe there’s another way.”
I hold my breath.
“There’s a flight to Grand Junction in forty-five minutes,” she says, her fingers flying across the keyboard. “From there, you can catch a connecting train to Goode Springs. It’s a scenic route, so it still runs in most weather. The last leg, from Goode to Willowbrook, you’d have to rent a car. The roads are still open, I think, but they’re advising against travel. It’s a five-hour trip, minimum. Maybe longer with the weather.”
