Page 11 of Her Unending Horizon

“Fuck off.”

I reached for the door handle. Michael stepped in front of it.

“We’re going to have this talk either outside or inside,” he said evenly. “Your choice.”

“No, we’re not.”

“You’re on the edge,” he said, voice dropping. “And if you go over, you’re going to make a mistake that’ll get you killed—and probably someone else.”

I glared at him.

Images flashed through my mind before I could stop them.

The wildfire last month, when I’d gone back into a compromised structure alone to retrieve equipment that could have waited—ignoring Michael shouting at me to stand down.

The fire in the hollow two weeks later, when I’d pushed too far ahead of the crew, chasing the flames instead of working the perimeter, nearly trapping myself when the wind shifted.

Both times, Michael had been there. Watching. Covering for me.

“It’s not that bad,” I said, though my voice lacked conviction.

“It is,” he said flatly. “And you know it. We’ve got a counselor on retainer through the department. Mandatory debriefs after critical incidents. You’ve skipped every optional session for months.”

I scoffed. “My issues aren’t about the job.”

“No,” he agreed. “But they’re affecting the job.”

I wanted to yell. To shove past him. To deny it.

Instead, I said, “I’ve found a new way to manage this.”

Michael’s eyes sharpened. “What?”

“Never mind. Just know it’s working.”

“It’s not counseling,” he said.

“No.”

“What about your depression?”

“I’m not fucking depressed,” I snapped, louder than I meant to.

Michael raised his hands. “Fine. You’re not depressed.”

I exhaled hard. “Just watch me. I’ve got my shit together. If I screw up again, I’ll see the shrink. Deal?”

He studied me for a long moment.

Then he sighed. “Deal.”

“Good. Now are we done with our little tea party?” I asked. “Can I go to work?”

“Yeah,” he said, stepping aside.

I walked into the station, shoulders tight, jaw clenched.

Anger simmered just beneath my skin.