Page 129 of Honeyfires

I leaned over her shoulder, scanning the article. It was worse than the local coverage. More sensationalized, less nuanced, filled with dramatic language about "property destruction" and "chain of command" and "split-second decisions with devastating consequences." They'd included a photo of one of the burned homes, the charred skeleton of what used to be someone's life, and juxtaposed it with my official station photo where I looked every inch the dangerous outsider.

"Portugal-born immigrant," I read aloud, the words bitter on my tongue. "They made sure to mention that. Again."

"Because they're trying to paint a narrative." Vera's hand found mine, squeezed. "And it has nothing to do with the actual facts of what happened."

I scrolled down, reading more. The article presented multiple angles, as if this was some kind of balanced journalism instead of a hit piece disguised as objectivity:

Property Rights: Homeowners devastated after firefighter's controversial call leaves six families without homes and a lifetime of memories reduced to ash.

Chain of Command: When should firefighters disobey direct orders? Experts weigh in on the dangerous precedent of insubordination in high-stakes emergency situations.

Gender Dynamics: Female firefighter's judgment questioned—critics wonder if a male crew member would face the same level of scrutiny for an identical decision.

That last one made something twist in my gut. Because they weren't wrong, were they? Would a man in my position be called "rogue"? Would his immigrant status be mentioned in the first paragraph? Would the focus be on his "emotional decision-making" and "failure to respect authority"?

Or would he be "bold," "decisive," "a hero who trusted his instincts to save his crew"?

I'd never know. And that uncertainty was its own special kind of torture.

"There are more," Vera said quietly, clicking to another tab. "Opinion pieces. Think pieces. Everyone has something to say."

She was right. The story had metastasized, spawned a dozen editorials and hot takes and social media threads dissecting every aspect of my decision, my background, my character. Some defended me, such as journalists who'd covered wildfire incidents before, retired firefighters who understood the impossible calculation of life-or-death decisions in changing conditions. But those voices were drowned out by the chorus of condemnation.

"Reckless endangerment of property for what? Six firefighters who were doing their jobs? Memories can't be replaced. Lives can be rebuilt. She destroyed irreplaceable family history to avoid the consequences of her own poor planning."

"This is what happens when we lower standards to increase diversity. Not every woman is cut out for firefighting, and this incident proves why rigorous physical and mental requirements exist. She panicked and cost six families everything."

"The chain of command exists for a reason. You can't have firefighters freelancing in the middle of an operation. If she thought the captain's orders were wrong, she should have raised concerns through proper channels, not unilaterally decided she knew better."

I read them all. Every single one. It was self-flagellation disguised as staying informed, pressing on the bruise again to see if it still hurt, knowing it would but unable to stop myself. Each article was another weight added to the pile I was already carrying, another voice telling me I'd failed, I'd fucked up, I'd let everyone down.

"Stop," Vera said, reaching over to close the laptop. "You're torturing yourself."

"I need to know what they're saying."

"No, you don't." Her voice was firm. "You need to eat breakfast and take a shower and remember that these people weren't there. They don't know what you know. They're just armchair critics with deadlines to meet."

She was right. I knew she was right. But the damage was already done. The words were in my head now, adding to the endless loop of doubt and recrimination that had been playing since the moment I'd called for that evacuation.

Three days later, everything got worse.

I was in the middle of mindlessly scrolling through my phone—a habit I couldn't seem to break despite knowing it was slowly poisoning me—when I saw it. A notification from Instagram, a message from someone I didn't know.

Looks like they found your girlfriend.

The message included a link. My hands were shaking as I clicked it, already knowing it would be bad, already bracing for impact.

The article was from one of those gossip-adjacent news sites, the kind that blurred the line between journalism and tabloid sensationalism. And there, front and center, was a photo I recognized—Vera and me at the barbecue cookout at the station, her laughing at something I'd said, my arm around her waist, both of us looking disgustingly happy and domestic. A picture she’d innocently uploaded to her social media weeks ago.

"Rogue Firefighter in Relationship with Local Librarian: Who Is Vera Montgomery?"

No. No, no, no.

My vision tunneled, the edges of my phone screen going fuzzy. This wasn't supposed to happen. Vera was supposed to stay separate from this mess, protected from the shitstorm that had become my life. She was supposed to be safe in her quiet library with her books and her reading programs and her peaceful, drama-free existence.

But someone had found us. Had gone through our social media; mine was mostly private, locked down tight, but Vera's was more open, more public. She posted pictures of book recommendations and library events, and yes, occasionally, photos of us together. Nothing inappropriate, nothing scandalous. Just two women in love, living their lives.

And now that love was being used as ammunition.