Page 121 of Honeyfires

The grocery store parking lot was half full, which meant it was crowded enough to run into people but not so packed I could disappear into anonymity. The Arizona sun beat down mercilessly, turning the asphalt into a shimmering mirage, and I could feel sweat beginning to gather at the base of my spine before we'd even made it through the automatic doors.

Inside, the air conditioning hit like a wall of ice. I grabbed a cart, the metal cool under my palms, and tried to focus on the mundane task at hand. Bread. Eggs. Coffee. The kind of shopping that used to be ordinary before I'd become the subject of a media witch hunt.

We'd made it through produce when I felt it, that prickling awareness on the back of my neck that said someone was watching. Years in combat zones had honed that instinct to a razor's edge, and even though San Jacinto, Arizona wasn't Kandahar, my body still knew the difference between casual observation and focused attention.

I turned, scanning the aisles, and caught sight of him. Middle-aged, graying hair, face twisted with recognition and something uglier. He was staring at me with the kind of intensity that made my muscles tense, made my hands grip the cart handle hard enough to hurt.

"Petra," Vera said quietly, following my gaze. "Maybe we should—"

But it was too late. He was already moving toward us, his cart abandoned mid-aisle, his steps purposeful and angry.

"You're her." His voice carried across the produce section, loud enough to make heads turn. "You're the firefighter who burned down my sister's house."

The words hit as lethally as bullets. Around us, I could feel people stopping, turning, recognition dawning on their faces. The firefighter from the news. The one who disobeyed orders. The villain.

"Sir, I—" My voice came out steadier than I felt, but barely.

"You think you know better than everyone, don't you?" He stepped closer, and I could see the grief carved into the lines around his eyes, the exhaustion that came from helping someone pick up the pieces of their shattered life. "You disobeyed orders. You played God with other people's homes. And now my sister has lost everything."

Other shoppers were gathering now, a slow constellation forming around us. I could feel their stares, their judgment, the weight of their collective condemnation pressing down on my shoulders.

"I'm sorry for your sister's loss," I said, trying to keep my voice level, professional. The same tone I'd used a thousand times delivering bad news to families. "But if I hadn't called that evacuation—"

"What?" His face flushed red, anger overtaking grief. "You would've died? Better you than six families losing everything! Better you than my sister losing forty years of memories, every photo of her kids growing up, her mother's wedding dress, her late husband's medals from Vietnam!"

I stood there frozen, every word landing like shrapnel. Because he wasn't wrong, was he? Maybe a house full of memories and photographs and irreplaceable pieces of history was worth more than one firefighter who couldn't sleep through the night without nightmares anyway. Maybe my life—marked by trauma and loss and the ghosts of friends who'd died in the desert—wasn't worth the same as those tangible pieces of someone's existence.

"That's enough."

Vera's voice cut through the spiral of my thoughts. She'd moved between us so quickly I hadn't even seen her shift, her delicate frame positioned protectively in front of mine, one hand reaching back to grip my wrist like an anchor.

"Who are you?" the man demanded, his attention shifting to her with obvious annoyance at the interruption.

"Someone who knows she saved lives that day." Vera's voice was steady, calm, but there was steel underneath it. The kind of steel I'd heard when she'd read me passages from books about warriors and heroes, when she'd talked about the quiet strength it took to stand up for what was right, when she’d confronted the last guy who had attacked me in this very same grocery store months ago. "Her crew would be dead if she hadn't made that call."

"Memories and photos can't be replaced—" he started, but Vera cut him off.

"Neither can people." Three words, delivered with such absolute certainty that even he paused. "Remember that."

She took my arm, not roughly, not like she was dragging me away, but gently, firmly, like she was guiding me somewhere safe, and led me toward the exit. I went willingly, numbly, my feet moving on autopilot while my brain tried to process what had just happened.

Behind us, I could hear murmurs, voices discussing what they'd just witnessed. Someone said my name. Someone else said something about the news. The automatic doors opened, and we stepped back out into the brutal sunshine, the heat hitting me like a wall after the artificial cold of the store.

"Car," Vera said quietly, still holding my arm. "Now."

I let her lead me to the passenger side of her Beetle, let her open the door and guide me inside like I was made of glass. She rounded the car quickly, sliding into the driver's seat and starting the engine. The air conditioning kicked on, blasting tepid air that would eventually cool, and she pulled out of the parking lot without a word.

We'd been driving for maybe two minutes when I started shaking.

It started in my hands first, just a tremor, barely noticeable. Then it spread to my arms, my shoulders, my whole body, until I was trembling so hard my teeth chattered despite the Arizona heat. The adrenaline that had kept me frozen in that grocery store was draining away, leaving behind only the raw, exposed wound of humiliation and shame.

"Petra—" Vera's voice was tight with concern.

"I'm fine," I managed through clenched teeth, but we both knew it was a lie.

She pulled over abruptly, the car lurching slightly as we left the road for a dusty shoulder. The moment we stopped, she turned to face me, her seatbelt straining as she reached for my hands.

"You don't have to be fine," she said firmly. "You just got verbally attacked in a grocery store. Again. You're allowed to not be fine."