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One week later
I let my palms rest against the tiled wall, my head hanging forward as the steaming hot water pounded between my shoulder blades. I was beat.
We’d just gotten back from dealing with a late-season fire a few hours north. Like much of the western United States and Canada, Alaska was dealing with frequent fires. With one fire after another, it felt like a game of whack-a-mole sometimes to just keep things under control. We still weren’t sure what started this fire, but the best guess was campers not following guidelines. After being gone for a week, we were all worn out.
I was beyond grateful that the fire station had kick-ass water pressure. The tension bundled between my shoulder blades started to ease from the heat. We carried heavy gear and worked our asses off in the backcountry. It didn’t matter how fit you were. A full week of that pushed a body to its limit.
I straightened, letting my hands fall as I grabbed the bar of soap and quickly soaped myself. After rinsing, I toweled off and stepped out of the showers into the locker room area. I had just pulled my shirt on a few minutes later when Graham asked, “Battle scars?”
Graham Holden was the superintendent of our crew and a damn good one at that. He was levelheaded but supportive. Being a hotshot firefighter took some nerve and plenty of confidence. There was a strain of men and women who did it who could be cocky and arrogant. Graham’s crew had none of that. As far as I could tell, the other crews in Willow Brook didn’t either. It set a tone, one I liked.
As much as I trusted Graham and felt comfortable, questions about the scars on my side elicited instant tension. It had been four full years, and I still contemplated flat-out lying whenever it came up. But that created another wrinkle of tension, and there was enough already.
I took a breath, letting it out quickly. “Before I became a hotshot firefighter, I was a teacher. There was a school shooting.”
That was all I said. I had rehearsed those words many times. Graham was quiet as he studied me for a long moment.
“Oh hell. I’m sorry,” he finally said.
I nodded. “Hell is one way to put it.”
I sat down on the bench, pausing to pull my boots on.
“I think about that more than I wish I did,” Graham commented.
I lifted my eyes to his as I tied my boots. “Don’t blame you.”
Graham had a teenage daughter who attended high school. I wasn’t about to give him the stats on the frequency of school shootings.
“Schools should be the safest places for our kids,” I said, stating the obvious. I was a hunter. By no means was I anti-gun. But I knew from personal experience that we were in a dangerous place these days regarding school shootings.
“Sometimes it seems like guns matter more than our children's lives,” Graham said somberly.
I straightened, resting my palms on my knees. “I know.”
“You okay?” he asked.
Thatwas a loaded fucking question. “I’m here,” I replied. “I’m okay. It hasn’t been easy. It’s the reason I made a career change.”
“Hotshot firefighting isn’t exactly a safe career choice,” Graham replied laconically.
I lifted a shoulder in a small shrug. “Maybe not, but the risks are more manageable. I couldn’t go back after that.” When the shooting happened, I’d just finished my graduate studies, and all I had left was to defend my dissertation. My plan had been to teach at the high school level for a few more years before looking for a university position. I could see questions swirling in Graham’s gaze, so I prompted, “Go ahead and ask.”
“Did anybody die?”
I felt a burning pain in my heart, pain that was usually cold. “Four kids and the shooter. A guidance counselor and the assistant principal. It was four years ago in Seattle.”
He nodded slowly, his brow furrowed. “Honestly, I can’t keep track. There are so many. Some stand out, but with others, I lose the details.” He leaned back against the lockers behind the bench where he was seated across from me and let out a ragged sigh.
“No shit. I can’t keep track either.”
He looked at me quietly for another moment before offering, “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re with us. You’re fucking rock solid out in the field.”
“I can handle a crisis. I’m good under pressure.”
I’m good under pressure.
My words to Graham echoed in my thoughts that night. Iwasgood under pressure. Except for the one time that really counted, I wasn’t good enough. I took two bullets in the side. They went clean through and didn’t hit a single organ, but the scars were bad. Semi-automatic bullets did that. The doctor said I was lucky as hell. I knocked the shooter down and saved a few more kids from getting shot. But it was too late for the four kids who were dead. I’d been dating the guidance counselor at the time. I didn’t even know she was already dead when those bullets hit me.
