Page 37 of Breaking Through

"Cut the crap, Wade." Tom dropped into the chair across from my desk. "The nightmares are getting worse, aren't they? That's why you're here at dawn, looking like you haven't slept in days."

I didn't answer, but my hands tightened on the report I held until the paper crackled.

"You know what I think?" Tom leaned forward. "I think they're worse because you're starting to feel something again for the first time in three years. And that scares the hell out of you."

"You're not my therapist." The words came out sharper than intended.

"No, I'm your friend. That means I get to tell you that you're being an idiot." He gestured toward the door. "That kid lights up this whole station every time he walks in. Maya's smiling more. Even the damn coffee maker seems to work better when he's around."

"He deserves better than—"

"Than what? Someone who understands loss? Someone who matches his strength with a different kind of courage?" Tom lowered his tone. "You think you're the only one with scars, Wade? That's arrogant. Do you think he doesn't have any of his own?"

The words rattled me. I thought about Holden caring for his grandfather, watching someone he loved struggle for every breath. He kept smiling anyway, finding joy in small victories. Maybe Tom had a point.

"The memorial service." My voice sounded strange in my own ears. "It's in two weeks. They want me to speak."

"Ah." Tom settled deeper into his chair. "So that's what triggered this latest retreat."

"I can't—" The words stuck in my throat. "I can't stand up there and talk about courage and sacrifice when I—"

"When you lived?" Tom's voice was as sharp as a razor blade. "When you survived and kept going and built something new? Yeah, that sets such a terrible example."

A knock at the outer door saved me from having to respond. Maya spoke from the other side. "Wade? You've got a visitor. And if you try to claim you're not here again, I'm telling Sarah at the Bean about that time with the angry geese."

"Traitor," I muttered.

Tom stood, his knees cracking. "You can't outrun your heart forever. It's anchored there in your chest." He paused at the door. "And Wade? Those nightmares? Maybe they're not about what you couldn't save. Maybe they're about what you still can."

He left me with that thought, the door clicking shut behind him. Through the window, I watched him cross the parking lot, pausing to say something to Holden, who stood by his car with what looked like a thermos and a familiar paper bag from the Bean.

I should have joined all of them. I should have apologized for disappearing and for not answering Holden's texts. Instead, I grabbed my gear and slipped out the back door, taking the utility trail that wound behind the station.

Clouds hung low on the horizon when I turned onto the ridge trail. Each step carried me further from warmth, connection, and the possibility of more nightmares where I failed to save someone else I—

The rest of the day passed in a haze of routine tasks. I cleared fallen branches from trails, updated warning signs about the seasonal bear activity, and pretended not to notice how my phone stayed silent in my pocket. By sunset, exhaustion filled my bones, but I knew sleep would only bring more dreams.

As the stars began to appear above me, I finally trudged up the steps to my cabin. Inside, everything waited as I'd left it: coffeecup in the sink, bed still rumpled from the morning's nightmare, and a sketch of Holden half-finished on my desk.

I'd just settled into my chair with a bottle of whiskey—barely two fingers poured—when headlights swept across my front window. A car door slammed, followed by footsteps on my porch—lighter than Tom's, more sure than Maya's.

"I know you're in there." It was Holden's voice. "I brought reinforcements."

I could have pretended to be asleep, maintaining the walls I'd spent days rebuilding. Instead, I crossed the room, drawn to his voice like a moth to flame.

He stood on my porch with a thermos in one hand and a grocery bag in the other. The porch light sparkled in his eyes. He wore a soft flannel shirt with a light jacket.

"Hi."

"It's dark out." My voice was gruff. "You shouldn't be here."

"Probably not." Holden shrugged. "I figured if you were going to brood alone in the dark, you might as well have hot chocolate and someone to share wild stories about the town's legendary squirrel gang with. Or, if you insist on being alone, at least enjoy the hot chocolate."

I surprised myself when a laugh caught in my throat. "Squirrel, what?"

"Oh, you haven't heard?" He smiled mischievously. "Sarah swears there's an organized crime syndicate of squirrels that's been stealing premium trail mix and running a black market nut operation. It's getting worse than you described. Maya has corroborating evidence. They supposedly have a hideout behind the visitor center."

I stepped back, letting him inside. He moved through my space with familiar ease, setting his supplies on the kitchen counter.

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