Dang, I'm getting good at writing angst. I'll write some happier stuff soon maybe? Idk.

And your words through the phone, force the skin right off my white bones… Our tiny fires, I swear they'll burn someday. And I want them wild and it some place it never rains. – "Tiny Fires" by Toby Johnson

Quil

"Dear God, do you still have that sad excuse for a beard?" Omar says the second I step into the fire station locker room for my shift.

"Shove it, Omar," I say, digging for my keys to unlock my locker.

It's good to be back.

Not that this is my first day. We're rounding out my second week back after bereavement leave, and the guys still aren't quite used to my new look. Neither is Mia, for that matter, but she wouldn't bother wasting her breath to voice an opinion I don't quite care for in the first place.

We're cool like that, Mia and me.

She's in here, too, pulling on her boots as she talks to a few of the guys from the crew we're relieving. I catch words like rig and hoses and decide I'm not ready to think about work just yet.

I stow my bag in my locker and pull out my own boots, trying to remember if I'm on kitchen duty this shift. I hope not. Dave and Aaron always complain their scrambled eggs are crunchy when I make breakfast. Claire helped me do an experiment one time where we bought pre-scrambled eggs, the kind you pour from the carton, and they still complained.

Claire.

I look at her picture, taped inside my locker door next to the ones of the Pack at Christmas and my mom and I on Mother's Day. I have one at home I've been meaning to bring in, of Embry and Bethany and Sadie. Might as well wait until the littlest Call makes his appearance in a few months.

Everyone has pictures in their locker, our reasons for being safe every single day we boot up. Sometimes after a tough or close call, there will be several of us in here, staring at those pictures.

I've got pictures of Claire on my phone, but this one is my favorite. Somehow I managed to grab it without her noticing, when we were up in the helicopter on our first date. Her head is swallowed by the comms headset, but her eyes are bright against the sky and her smile is wide with wonder.

I'd give everything to be able to go back to that moment. Where we were still unaffected by death and loss and grief. Where she was still here. Where, even if she didn't belong to me, she at least let me think it.

God, I miss her.

"Listen up, crew," Chief Marston says from the doorway, commanding attention even though he didn't speak above a conversational tone. Chief usually gives updates at the end of a shift, not the beginning, so it's a little weird that he's in here now.

The room quiets instantly, and I lean against the lockers to give him my full attention. Chief's been incredibly understanding with my situation and taking time off after Hannah died. Not all bosses would have been so kind. I'm not sure what they had to do to cover me, but I hope whoever had to put up with Omar got paid a little more for their troubles. Or, at the very least, didn't have bathroom duty.

I catch Aaron's eye across the room, asking without words whether he knows what this is about.

Aaron shakes his head, and we both turn back to Chief.

"There will be a crew change, effective immediately," he says, just as Brady Fuller waltzes in the doorway.

And proceeds to sling his bag directly into Dave's old locker.

"Oh no," Mia whispers, almost inaudible.

"Oh yes," Brady says loudly, throwing her a shameless wink.

"Absolutely not," she barks, slamming her boot down with a loud thud. "Chief, you can't be serious. I'll kill him."

"I don't want to hear it, Shelton," he says. "Metzer wanted the swing shift, and Fuller wanted this one. Done and done."

Mia's cheeks blaze, even as her eyes tighten. "I'll quit."

This makes Chief pause, and everyone else in the room goes rigid. Maybe because we know she's serious. Female firefighters are a cut above the rest, even the men. (Especially the men.) What Mia wants, Mia will get. "What'll it take?"

"Brady off this crew."

She called him Brady and not Fuller. That's… well, I'm not sure. Interesting, at the very least. We always go by last names in front of Chief.

"Next," he barks, almost in a laugh.

Mia looks over her shoulder at Brady. I can't be sure, but he might wink again. She whips her head back around, breaking the eye contact. "No kitchen or rig duty for three months."

"One."

"Three," she says again.

"Two," Chief counters, his brow furrowing. His chest, muscled probably from sheer will alone, expands with a deep breath. He doesn't let it out.

"Three," Mia says, just as firm. "I'll transfer to Seattle. They're always desperate for people."

Everyone is silent. I hear seven fast-beating hearts. Colton's eyes are wide. Omar's jaw is practically on the floor, which more than makes up for Mia and Brady's clenched ones.

"I…" Chief clears his throat. "I guess you better rearrange the rotation, boys. Sounds like you've got a few extra days to pick up."

And even though Brady's got every right to groan (he'll have to cook more, too), he smiles.

As the others clear out and head to do our routine shift-start checks, Brady throws Mia another wink. Seriously, the guy wouldn't know subtle if it hit him in the face. "Need help tying those boots?"

"I need you to fuck all the way off," Mia grumbles, bending down to finish. I watch for only a second and realize Brady was right—she can't manage to tie her laces.

I fasten my watch around my wrist, running out of things to keep me occupied while I eavesdrop. I'd be able to hear them from anywhere in the station, but I'd hate myself if I missed it, if Mia decides to smack him in the face instead.

"I thought you said you hated rig duty," Brady offers, gentler than I thought he could be. "And that kitchen duty made you feel like a housewife. Which, clearly, you are not."

Mia shoves her untied laces hastily into the side of her boot. "Don't insult me."

"I would never," Brady says, hand on heart.

I'd think that Brady lost this fight, but after Mia shoulder-bumps him on the way out, he breaks into a face-splitting grin.

Someone just got played, and I have no idea who it was.

But I don't think it was Brady.

After shift—Mia and Brady managed not to kill each other—I make my way to my truck and wonder if it's too soon to call Claire.

The last time I heard from her, she'd just gotten back from working a shift at a plant nursery and was sore to the bone. When she was little and had growing pains, I'd always been able to use my hands as heating pads, wrap them around her shins to help ease the pain. When she got her first period, the backaches were so bad she skipped school. I skipped work too, and my hand stayed on her lower back for about two full days.

I wanted to be there for her then, and I want it now. To feel her skin under my palms. To smell her fucking shampoo, even. But more than anything, I need to look in her eyes and see what the hell she'd ever been thinking when she left.

Why she thought she could handle everything on her own; more importantly, why she thought she had to.

"Fuck it," I mumble, pressing her name on my screen.

It rings twice before she picks up. "Hey."

"So get this," I say, "Brady's on our crew now."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Mia threatened to quit, and she got out of kitchen and rig duty for three months. She probably could have gotten out of bathroom duty too if she'd—"

"Quil, I—" Her breath catches, and it tickles my ear. An uneasy feeling bubbles in my stomach, and I know whatever she's about to say is important. "Now's not a good time. There's a lot going on."

"Are you safe?" I ask, gritting my teeth. It will take me an hour to get to the airport if I run. Three and a half if I drive and take the risk of speeding.

"I'm okay," she says after a beat, and I know she means it. "I'm… packing."

Packing.

A thousand-ton weight lifts off my shoulders, my heart. She's coming home. "That's great, Claire. What time does your flight get in? I'll go tell your family right now. I was going over there anyway, but this is a great—"

"I'm not coming home," she interrupts, sounding a little offended at the idea. "I still… I need more time."

My brain hurts. The fatigue from shift is catching up to me, or maybe it's this emotional roller coaster I always find myself on with Claire.

"Sweetheart, please…" My voice breaks, and a hot tear falls to my cheek. I bang my head against the steering wheel and hope everyone else from shift is already gone.

Her sniffles are unmistakable, and I hate that I can't hold her while she's hurting. "Would you believe me if I said it's not you, it's me?"

"I don't care who it is or isn't," I say into the steering wheel, gripping the phone tight to my ear. It's the closest I get to her now. "I just—fuck, Claire, I miss you. It hurts, everywhere and all the time."

"Quil…" she whispers, and for a full minute, it's just the two of us, trying not to let the other know how much we're falling apart. She's failing, and I am too.

But I know her—her mind is made up. If all I get are these pieces of her, then that's all I get. I won't push too hard and risk being cut off completely.

I'm fairly certain I wouldn't survive.

"You said you're packing," I finally grit out, dragging my palm across my eyes to dry them. "Where are you going?"

"Actually, will you do me a favor?"

I swallow harshly. "You know I'll do anything for you."

I hear her pause again, another stifled sob. "Can you take a look at that surfing book you got me for Christmas? I think it's on my desk at home. There's a list of the world's best surf swells in there. I'd like a picture of it, please."

And the thousand-ton weight is back, except it feels more like two thousand this time.

"Where are you going, Claire?"

"I don't know yet," she says, just fast enough to let me know that's not the complete truth.

Jonathan Young is not a good cook.

And by that, I mean he tried to boil water for pasta tonight and filled it so full that it took almost thirty minutes. And then that boiling water spilled over and made a mess on the stove.

He protested when I tried to take over, but not very hard. I may not be Gordon Ramsay, Jonathan, but I can boil some fucking water.

I relegate him to setting the table, and out of the corner of my eye, I see his hand twitch for more plates. Two more plates, probably, one for each of the women we miss.

"Talked to Claire today," I say, stirring the noodles and making sure the sauce is warming up well on another burner. "She's leaving San Diego."

Jon grunts as the silverware drawer opens. "She tells you more than she tells me."

It stings, even though I know he didn't mean it as an insult. It was just never supposed to be this way.

"What I mean to say is," Jon says after an awkward silence and a loud throat-clear, "is that I'm glad she has you. Callie's stuck with me."

Something about this makes me grin. "You sounded like Hannah just now, you know." The pasta and sauce are finally under control, so I feel comfortable turning to him, bracing on the counter beside the stove so we can have an actual conversation. So I can gauge his reaction about being compared to his late wife.

"It's… it's weird, isn't it?" He drops into a random chair at the table—but not Hannah's, never Hannah's. "She's been gone for almost two months and I still hear all that goddamn music."

I cross one ankle over the other, fitting myself into the bend of the countertop. "You should probably see someone about that." His eyes turn sharp, and I crack a grin to let him know I'm joking (even though I'm really not).

"I'm not going crazy, Quil. There really is music. It's all Callie does up there in that bedroom," he explains. "Listen to Hannah's old albums. I didn't even know we still had a CD player."

"Is she—" still coming home smelling like weed and booze? "Home?"

He goes to nod, but I see it in his eyes that he doesn't know if she is or not, and so I tell him about the book Claire wanted as an excuse.

"Watch the sauce," I tell him, starting for the stairs.

"Just watch?" He grins, but just a small one, hardly strong enough to lift both corners of his mouth. "Or watch and stir."

My lips rise to match his. "Look at you, learning already. Watch and stir, Jon. Watch and stir."

I find the surfing book on Claire's desk, under a pile of schoolbooks. I hope she didn't have to turn those back in.

The list she requested is easy enough to find, so I snap a picture of it. I'm tempted to cover some of the options with my thumb, so she has less to choose from and therefore I have more of a chance of finding her, should she ever wish to be found.

But I don't do that.

I take a picture of the entire list, sending it over with a caption: surf's up. She sends back a yellow heart.

Callie's bedroom door is closed when I check, but through it I can hear the music Jonathan was talking about, loud but muted, like she's wearing headphones.

I knock, but there's no way she'll have heard me. I crack open the door and peek through.

Callie's on her bed, headphones on like I predicted. She's clutching a pillow so close to her chest I can't tell what color her shirt is.

She sits up when she sees me, yanking an earbud out. "Hey."

I motion to the end of the bed, and she nods. I sit gingerly and take a look around.

Her room, like Claire's, is the epitome of a teenage girl's. There are clothes spilling out of the dresser, body spray and lotion and trinkets on top that probably tip over every time she shuts a drawer. The closet is open, empty hangers sticking out at wonky angles. A discarded pile of clothes sit on the chair beside it. Callie's walls are lavender, her bedspread tie-dye. There's a shag rug under the little vanity in the corner.

This room is as colorful as it's ever been, but I've never seen Callie so gray.

"Dad's still sleeping on the couch," Callie says without prompting. "And he's refilled those sleeping pills three times. That's three times in two months, Quil."

My heart sinks, because I thought he'd seemed a little better today. Better, I guess, is relative, when the person you promise your life to has to dip out early. "I'll come over more. Keep an eye on him."

She nods fervently, shifting like she's uncomfortable. The sweatshirt she's wearing looks familiar, but I don't think it's hers. "Have you talked to—" Her jaw clamps shut, as do her eyes. They're always puffy these days, when I get glimpses of her. Come to think of it, I don't remember the last time I saw her drink water.

God help me, I'm going to have to start sneaking vegetables into their food, the way parents do with picky toddlers. I wonder if you can overnight a food processor.

I shrug, answering her question even though she didn't finish it. "Today. She's okay, I think." I study her more closely. Actually, now that I'm thinking about it, that sweatshirt looks a little like one of Claire's.

A packet of paper pokes out from under the pillow she'd been clutching, and even though I know what it is, I have to ask anyway. "Is that your letter?"

She nods, her eyes watering instantly when she looks down at it. She's probably grateful for the distraction. "You can read it if you want."

I shake my head. "It's personal, I don't—" but her face changes, and she looks almost hopeful, and I find myself nodding instead. "Okay, if you're sure."

She dips her chin again, replacing her earbud to block me out. She leans back against her headboard, staring at the ceiling, and I pick up the sheets. They're crumpled, the creases well-worn like it's been folded and unfolded and folded again. Over and over and over. One more glance at Callie reveals a tear slipping down to her chin.

I read.

Callie, My Sweetest Baby Girl,

Well this really sucks, doesn't it?

No, this letter isn't a joke. I just wanted to make you laugh one more time, in case you forgot what it felt like.

You will have ripped open this letter the second you got it. Your enthusiasm for even the grimmest or most mundane tasks is inspiring to me. You give me strength I can't find anywhere else on earth. Not with music or at home or with your father or with your sister.

Callie, you matter, because you are you.

I'm going to tell you a secret: Claire is not perfect.

Want some proof? We had a second baby, didn't we?

Did you laugh again?

Good.

I know you hold yourself to her standard, which is unfair to you both. If she can't reach them, how the hell are you supposed to?

I know it's easier said than done. So here is further proof:

You walked first—by a whole two weeks! You talked first (and cursed first). You smiled first. You slept through the night first. You did better in the fourth-grade art show than she did. I'm also fairly certain you kissed a boy before she did.

But here's the thing: none of it matters in the end. One of the greatest gifts we ever get in life is a sister. They're reflections of us, the best and worst parts. But I think sometimes that because they're reflections, we forget what we look like without them.

There is nothing that would be the same without you, Callie. Our family or my heart.

I know it's been hard for you growing up in her shadow. I can only hope you step out of it one day. There is room enough in the sunshine for both of you. And the proudest you could make me is by being yourself.

Do you know, Callie Evangeline Young, that your smile makes the world a better place? That your laughter is infectious, and your spunk and spontaneity inspire those around you to act with courage? Your love for life is contagious.

You have a lot of that life left to live, so please don't waste it crying for me. Every time you hear a wind chime, or listen to the ocean in a seashell, that's me. When you're dancing, I will be your bass beat, the way that you were mine.

And every time your sister makes you so mad you can't see straight, I'm in those moments too. Remember how I told you moms know everything? I'll know even more now.

I started this letter hoping to leave you with some final words of wisdom, but I don't think I could ever teach you more than you taught me. So I will say thank you. I am thankful to have been your mother, but more so to have been your friend. You were one of my best.

All my love for all your life,
Mama

I can so clearly picture Hannah's face as she wrote this. She was smiling for the most part, and laughed when she instructed Callie to. But she was sad. I can tell in the way it got more somber at the end. I'd bet this was one of the last few letters she wrote.

"I didn't know," she whispers with a shrug. "I didn't know she thought of me like that."

"Isn't it kind of cool, though?" I flip the last page over, already knowing what I'll find.

Callie's Guide to Life through Music

1. Listen when you read this – The Mother by Brandi Carlile
2. Listen when you realize you're in love, because sometimes falling happens too quick to feel – Crazy for You by Madonna
3. Listen when your heart breaks (I hope you never have to listen to this, but life is hard) – Strange by Celeste
4. Listen when you hate your sister – You Can't Always Get What You Want by The Rolling Stones
5. Listen when you need to escape – Bibia Be Ye Ye by Ed Sheeran
6. Listen when you screw up big – Feeling Whitney by Post Malone
7. Listen when you want to smile – The Sound by The 1975
8. Listen when you want to cry – She Used To Be Mine by Sara Bareilles
9. Listen when you miss me – The Best Day by Taylor Swift (fair warning, this one usually makes me cry, too)
10. Listen when you miss yourself – If It Makes You Happy by Sheryl Crow

Callie gives me one of her earbuds, and I slip it into my ear, moving to prop myself against the headboard next to her, taking care not to get my boots on the bed.

"Which number is this?"

"Nine," she says, her head dropping to my shoulder.

My eyes find the list again. Listen when you miss me.

"I only got five songs," I say, hoping to make her smile, even just a little bit. "Tell me you're the favorite without telling me you're the favorite."

We listen for a few minutes in silence, and if my shoulder grows damp with her tears, and if my neck grows damp from mine, well… That's between me and Callie.

A shrill ringing breaks through the room, and we both jump.

The smoke detectors are going off.

"It's fine!" Jon yells from downstairs, but Callie and I are both laughing too hard to really hear him. "Just burned the sauce!"

"Are you sick of pizza yet?" Callie asks me, pausing the music. She tucks the letter into her nightstand drawer before standing to her feet.

I grin. "I'm pretty sure my blood is pizza sauce at this point. I basically need it to survive."

"Can you handle the alarm?" she asks. "I'll call in the order."