Page 60 of Breaking Through

The first photo would capture that tension—order versus chaos, old dreams versus new ones.

Wade stood apart, shoulder braced against the doorframe as if unsure whether to fully enter the domestic scene. Light from the window carved shadows beneath his eyes, reminding me of that first morning on the beach. When he reached for one of Rafe's creations, his hand hesitated, just for a moment. It was the same hesitation I'd seen when he'd shown me the therapy program plans.

I raised the camera again.

Click.

The second photo would preserve the moment of his uncertainty—the former firefighter who'd fled human connection now reaching out, one careful gesture at a time.

The morning sun shifted, painting long shadows across Gran's kitchen floor. Dad's laptop screen reflected in his glasses as he studied numbers that couldn't quantify what was happening. Mom's smile was fragile, with signs of worry at the edges.

Sarah's boundless enthusiasm faltered when she glanced at the calendar on the wall, with its empty squares waiting to be filled. And Wade... Wade watched me watching them all, questions in his eyes neither of us was ready to answer.

I lifted the camera one final time, hands steady despite everything.

Click.

The third photo would show what wasn't there—the spaces between heartbeats, the silent costs of change, and the thread of connection stretching thin but refusing to break.

With the three images, I did my best to capture what words couldn't express: what we risk by staying, what we lose by leaving, and the impossible space between where love somehow has to find its way.

The magazine editor's card sat propped against Dad's database printouts. Sarah was already planning the celebration, Mom was researching Portland sublets, and somewhere in Milwaukee, veterans waited to share their stories. Wade's hand found mine under the table, his grip carrying that familiar tension between holding on and letting go.

"I should head back to the station," he said softly, but he didn't move.

Neither did I.

Chapter eighteen

Wade

The veterans arrived like early winter shadows, each finding their own space in the shelter's restored main room. We'd roughed in battery-operated lighting that would need replacement soon.

Mike Sullivan settled near the east wall, his usual sketchbook balanced on one knee. Two women in faded Marine Corps sweatshirts chose chairs by the door—tactical positioning I recognized from my early therapy days. A younger man with a 10th Mountain Division patch on his backpack hesitated in the doorway until Mike nodded at the empty chair beside him.

No one spoke. The only sounds were unpacking pencils and charcoals, paper rustling, and the soft scrape of chair legs on concrete. Through the ventilation shaft, the lake wind smelled like approaching snow.

"Coffee's by the north wall." My voice echoed more than I'd expected. "And, uh, there are fancy pastries from Sarah in town."

That earned a few smiles. Sarah's reputation had preceded her. One of the Marine veterans—Peters, according to her name tag—investigated the spread.

"These muffins sparkle." She held one up, examining it like unexploded ordnance. "That can't be regulation."

"Nothing in Blue Harbor is." Mike didn't look up from his sketchbook. "You get used to it."

I moved to the center of the room, fighting the urge to retreat behind my ranger persona. The shelter walls held familiar art—Gran's gentle waves alongside Marcus Beltran's storms—but something had shifted. The space was living again, and I stood at the commencement of my art therapy idea, like a firefighter in the moment before entering a burning building.

"So." I cleared my throat. "We're not here for formal therapy. This is just... a space. For whatever you need it to be."

Peters snorted. "And what we need is art therapy? Drawing pretty pictures to make the noise stop?"

"No." I gestured at the murals. "We're here because sometimes words get stuck. Sometimes they're not enough." My hand shook slightly as I pulled out one of my sketches—not from Chicago, but from last week. "Sometimes a single line says more than hours of talking."

A younger man—Martinez, according to his name tag—leaned forward. The name hit hard, but I fought back a visceral response. "That's Eagle Point, isn't it? The way the cliff edges look ready to crumble?"

I nodded, surprised he'd caught that detail. The sketch showed the limestone face during the last storm, all precarious angles and uncertain shadows. I'd drawn it after a nightmare, trying to capture how solid ground could transform into empty air between one heartbeat and the next.

"You're that firefighter who became a ranger." The other Marine—Wilson—spoke for the first time. She'd chosen charcoal from the supplied materials, her fingers already smudged gray. "You're the one who pulls people back from the edges."

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