Two chapters in one week?! Hope you're ready for the third letter (I wasn't lol). We're looking at three chapters until we're caught up to that flash-forward :) Buckle in for a wild ride until then, starting here.

You'll stay there, and we'll move on – "Hometown" by Sea Girls

Quil – April

One year.

We've been without Hannah one year now, to the day.

I thought I would be a wreck, and I am, a little. But it's more than that. It's the other anniversary, the one looming in my periphery. Next week, Claire will have been gone for an entire year, too.

It's been less time, of course, since I've heard her voice. But held her in my arms? Kissed her mouth?

"You're doing that thing," Callie says, elbowing me in the side. "The spiral thing. Knock it off."

We're on the beach, the three of us: me, Callie, Jon. When we decided how we wanted to commemorate this day, we decided it should be done doing one of Hannah's favorite things. Who cares if it's only April and the water is still frigid? Hannah never did. She'd stay out there until her lips were blue. So that's what we're planning to do. Later, we'll have a bonfire and Jon will burn hot dogs and marshmallows both.

But first, we're reading each other's letters. I've already read Callie's, of course, but she hasn't read mine. Neither has Jon. There's a lot about Claire in there I'm not sure either of them is ready to read.

And apart from missing her, it would be nice for her to have been here. For us all to get another take on Hannah's final thoughts, hear her voice from another perspective. Be reminded of songs long forgotten.

Clearing my head to shake it, I take in a deep lungful of salty ocean air. It may not help center me as much as it does Claire, Hannah, but whoever said they don't like the beach clearly hasn't been to the right one.

Callie plays some of Hannah's favorite music off her phone with sparkly eyes, and we pass our letters to the left. I start with Callie's, laughing in the spots Hannah guessed Callie would, tearing up at how perfectly she pegged her daughters. The songs she chose for Callie were so, so good.

I wipe at my tears with the pads of my thumbs, but it's a lost cause when Callie passes me Jon's letter, tears streaming freely down her face and sobs caught in her throat.

Ho boy. Here we go.

Jonathan,

My sweetest, best love.

There are so many things I want to say to you, but there aren't words enough to sum up our love. It is boundless. You have always called me Daka—Sun—but that's impossible, because that's what you are to me. And after all, the universe can only have one sun.

The first time I saw you, I knew you were going to change me. Not in the toxic ways someone can change another person. But in the soul-deep, first love kind of way. I knew from our first kiss (I guess I can tell you now, you did taste like onions (sorry I lied)), I would measure every man to your standard. And then you had your fourth beer, and you told me my eyes were like sunlight, even though they were brown, and I realized there weren't going to be any other men.

You gave me everything. Love. Laughter. Light. Our girls.

And now we're here.

There will probably be other women for you. A heart like yours deserves love. You won't want to move on, Jon, but I am telling you: It's okay. I am okay. And you, eventually, will be okay. Loving someone else could never diminish what we have, change or tarnish it. I don't think love works that way.

If I had to pick the perfect woman for you—

Okay, if I had to pick the second most perfect woman for you, these are the qualities I would give her: she would be just funny enough to make you crack a smile, when you are raging mad. She would be selfless enough to love our children as her own. She would be able to cook, because Jon, it's time you admitted it: you're helpless and hopeless both. She would be just-for-you beautiful, in the ways only your heart can see. And she would help you out of the darkness you sometimes find yourself in.

(By the way, that darkness is called depression. Giving it a name gives it less power, not more. You'll need to make sure the girls know it runs in our family.)

Anyway. I don't want this new mystery woman to replace me—because I am not replaceable. (Is this too cocky for a woman on her death bed?) I want her to respect me. I want her to see all the ways I loved you and our girls and figure out how she fits into that picture. Not as a replacement, but as an addition. It's okay if it happens soon. It's okay if it happens slow. Love, like grief, is not on a schedule.

You are the best father and friend anyone could hope or dream, and I know after I'm gone you can continue to be both to the people who love you best, if you only remember all the ways you are lovable.

I love you down to my bones, for all of this life and my next. Be happy.

Hannah

Jon's Guide to Life through Music

1. Listen when you read this – The Story by Brandi Carlile
2. Listen when you think you're ready to move on – Wherever You May Be by Bonnie Raitt
3. Listen when you find out you're wrong – Hiding my Heart by Adele (you have to give her a chance eventually, Jonathan)
4. Listen if/when the girls get married – Slipping Through my Fingers by ABBA
5. Listen on the most perfect days, and imagine me right by your side – Islands in the Stream by Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers

The three of us sit there for a long time afterwards, pointing out different parts of our letters and the others that remind us the most of Hannah. We're all crying, but we're also laughing. And smiling.

And I can't help but wonder if that wasn't her goal all along.

I don't even miss Claire that much. It hurts, right in the center of my heart where the imprint lives, the way it always does, but I have repressed that pain. It's more annoying than anything. And if I had to live my entire life this way, I think maybe I could. It'd be a half-life, yes, but it would still be a life.

"We've had to grieve them both," I say without thinking.

Callie has her head on her dad's shoulder, but she turns to look at me. "No wonder we're so fucked up."

"Callie," Jon admonishes, trying to hold a firm tone. His voice cracking in the middle doesn't do him any favors.

And we all burst into laughter again.

I nudge her shoulder with mine when I can breathe again. "I think that's five dollars for the swear jar, Cal."

Callie snorts. "Yeah, because that worked out so well with Claire."

Quil – July

Work is insane this summer; Chief is working on getting more people hired, but bureaucracy is slow and budgets are tight. A few of us have picked up extra shifts, which isn't something he'd normally condone, but desperate times. I think that call in Olympic had an impact on more than just me.

For example, Omar has been on top of his shit. He's now first in the truck when we get a call, and is always watching for weather reports and Forest Services memos. I guess I've been reacting the same way—I've worked enough doubles that Chief had to force me to stop. I compromised by coming in an hour early and leaving an hour late. An hour could have saved that woman's life.

And Brady, that big hearted man, adopted that woman's fucking dog, when the shelter said they couldn't find a foster home for her. "It's only gonna be a few nights," he'd justified. (That was four months ago.)

"Don't you already have a dog?" Omar had asked.

"Betty's like me," Brady said in answer. "She plays well with others." He winked at Mia, the way he does.

I turned away then, so he wouldn't see me rolling my eyes, but not fast enough to miss Mia's cheeks pink up.

Chief and I have been going over the latest reports over coffee this morning. Now, both our mugs are empty, and we're heading toward the kitchen for refills when Brady shuffles in. And I'm glad. He's on breakfast duty today.

"Sorry I'm late," he breathes, sliding a tray of store-bought pastries on the counter. "One of the dogs puked, and the other one ate it."

Chief grimaces and decides against the croissant he'd been reaching for. "Not late yet. Not like Shelton's about to be." We all glance to the clock.

Mia's been weird lately, a little more withdrawn since a woman died in her arms. She's out the door as soon as shift ends, eager to avoid small talk. When she's on shift, she seems present, otherwise I'd ask her what's going on. Maybe she got a new dog, too.

She walks in then, duffle bag slung over her shoulder, looking a bit of a mess. Her hair is down and tangled, and her face is free of the minimal makeup she normally wears around the station. Her cheeks are flushed, but not in a flattering way. She heads wordlessly toward the locker room, and Chief catches my eye and tilts his chin.

Guess I am asking what's going on.

"Did you get a dog?" I ask when I reach her. She's at her locker, ducking down to fix her hair in the mirror hanging from the door.

She stops, mid-bun flip, and turns her entire body to face me. She blinks.

"Mia?" I try when she doesn't acknowledge me.

She blinks again. "What? I'm sorry. I didn't have time for coffee this morning."

"I asked if you got a dog."

She looks like I'm speaking a different language. "A dog," she repeats.

"Yes."

"Why would I have gotten a dog?"

I laugh. "Fuck if I know. Brady was talking about his dog eating puke. It was on my mind."

She blinks at me for a third time, then severs the eye contact and turns back to her locker. "I just overslept."

Something in the way she won't meet my eyes makes me wonder if she's lying. "Is everything okay?"

"I'm fine, Quil. Just tired," she says, and opens her mouth as if to force a yawn.

She's definitely lying, but I can't force her to talk if she doesn't want to or isn't ready.

My mind jumps to Claire, but I force the thought of her out of my head. It doesn't do me any good. There are people here who need my attention. Civilians who will lose their homes and loved ones if we can't get these wildfires under control.

I can't tell whether it's ironic: since my wildfire left, a dozen more have popped up around me.

Quil – September

Certain things are supposed to be impossible. Bringing someone back from the dead. Time travel. Water catching fire.

But our crew is in Olympic National Park for the fifth time in as many weeks, and it seems the impossible has finally happened:

Washington is on fire.

There is tension everywhere, and the crew isn't excluded. Tempers are short and flared. A few weeks ago, I walked in on Mia and Brady whisper-arguing in the locker room (if the body language was anything to go by), quiet enough that even I couldn't hear what they were saying.

"This is not a hero mission," Chief said this morning as we pulled up to the checkpoint. "We're doing border work only. The smokejumpers and water planes are taking off momentarily."

The smoke hung thick in the air; Omar had to hit the wipers more than once to clear the ash from the windshield as we drove in. I didn't see how the planes would have enough visibility to take off, or fly low enough to make a difference.

The fire is an ominous glow along the fringes, backlighting the sky so it glows an eerie orange. There is chaos everywhere, with different teams and stations set up. I haven't checked my phone in hours, but I feel it vibrate every so often in my pocket. I imagine different names flashing across my screen, matching the faces on my locker door.

Embry's will probably talk about our weekend plans in a guise of checking on me: Still on for basketball this weekend with Jake, or do you want to reschedule since you're busy saving the day? Bethany's will have a similar tone, if you know how to read between her lines: Try not to die today, okay? Sadie said you promised her Disney on Ice and I'm *not* sitting through that again, Quilliam.

Mom's will be sentimental: Thinking about you. Please be safe. Love you.

If I dared to dream, if I let my mind travel down the paths my therapist claims "unhealthy and self-destructive," I'd imagine Claire would text me.

I know you're busy, she'd say. But I miss you. Come home, and then come get me.

It could be minutes, or hours, we are here. Commands blend into suggestions, names blend into colors, people blur together and fracture apart in my vision. I'm dead on my feet.

But eventually, when my gear feels heavy enough to weigh me to my spot forever, the call comes in.

"Pull back, team," Chief crackles over the radio. "I'm talking to the rangers now. Get ready to roll out."

This is not a win for us, for anyone. Things are still burning. Thousands of square miles of nature are at risk; animals will die, and the ones that escape will be misplaced and homeless and confused. If the wildfire keeps up this pace, nearby towns will need to be evacuated, left to chance and wind direction and left to burn.

The crew meets back at the truck, dirty and smelly and dejected. We start to pack up.

"Wait," Brady says, looking around. "Where's Mia?"

We all look around, taking stock, before Omar offers an answer: "She doubled back to check the South cabins at Campbell Tree Grove."

Brady's knees nearly buckle. "Those got evacuated an hour ago. That's too close to the flame line." He throws off his pack and rips it open, refilling it with extra supplies. "I'm going to get her."

My heart races, and I wish Chief was here. Everyone is looking to me for the answers, but I don't have them. I hardly know the questions.

"Let me radio her first," I say.

I switch to our station channel, the one not loaded down with other first responders, but she doesn't answer. I just hear my voice, echoed back to me as my team stands and waits with me.

"Ateara to Shelton," I say again. "Status report."

Nothing.

"Mia," I say. "Mia, what's your location?"

That goes unanswered, too. Brady shakes his head. "She turns down the radio when things get too serious. All the noise distracts her."

I knew that—I forgot, clearly, but I did know that at one point—but how did Brady?

He pulls his pack on and looks at his oxygen level, and I check over my shoulder again for Chief. I want him to be the one to make this call.

Maybe it's the light, the air, the open radio of the car driving by twenty miles away that's playing "Drops of Jupiter," but something has the words of Hannah's letter flying through my head. Learn to say no. Stand up for yourself. Maybe this isn't what she meant, but I'll take it either way.

"Brady," I say, flipping up my face shield so he can see my eyes. "It's not happening."

All around us, radios crackle to life. With so much traffic and background noise the message is garbled, but clear. "South barrier has been breached. Campbell Tree Grove campground is up." Up in flames, they mean.

That's where Mia is.

Brady roars his pain and frustration. "Quil! She needs us!" He says 'us,' but I hear 'me.'

"You cannot go back," I grit. "It's not safe."

Brady rips off his helmet, throwing it down on the ground hard enough to crack the visor. His eyes are red and watery. "We can't leave her in there! I have to go, she—fuck, get off me!" Aaron and Omar grip his shoulders, and I can tell they're straining beneath their gear to hold him back.

"Mia knows what to do," I say, grabbing his shoulders. There are three of us holding him now, and it's still almost not enough. "She is the best person on this crew. I know you love her, but you have to trust her, too."

Just like I love Claire, but I don't trust her not to break my heart again if given the chance.

"You don't understand!" Brady moans, attempting to pull free. There are tears freely streaming down his face, and he makes no move to wipe them away, only to get through our barrier. "She's pregnant!"