Page 1 of Born in Fire

Chapter 1

Juno

I wake before my alarm, eyes snapping open to darkness. For a moment, I lie still, listening to the quiet hum of my apartment. My fingers find the small notebook and pen I keep beside my pillow—another night without dreams I can remember. A small victory.

The red digits of my clock read 5:17 a.m. Forty-three minutes until I should get up. I could try for more sleep, but my body has already decided.

Might as well get out of bed.

Sitting up, I run through my morning check: front door—chain and deadbolt; windows—locked; fire escape window—secure with the wooden dowel in the track.

My feet find their slippers as I pad to the kitchen. The herbs in my window boxes need attention—basil reaching eagerly toward the glass, mint threatening to overtake its neighbors. I touch the soil, checking moisture. Gardening was my mother’s talent, notmine, but I’ve kept these alive for eight months now. Another victory.

The kettle whistles as my phone vibrates on the counter.

Unknown number.

Shit.

My throat tightens as I silence it, sliding the phone face-down.

One, two, three, four—inhale.

One, two, three, four—exhale.

I catch myself picking at my cuticles and press my palms flat against the cool countertop instead.

“Not today,” I whisper to the empty kitchen. The sound of my own voice settles me.

The tea steeps while I get ready, choosing layers despite the forecast for mild weather—a tank top beneath a button-down beneath a cardigan. There’ll be an apron over all of it once I get to work. Each layer a small shield.

I twist my hair into a loose bun, apply minimal makeup. The woman in the mirror looks put-together, professional. She doesn’t look afraid.

Because I’m not afraid.

…I’m not!

I opt for the train to get to work today, preferring to mix it up and not follow a noticeable routine. It pulls up at the siding right on time, and I make my way in, reaching for a grab rail to steady myself. The train lurches forward, and I tighten my grip to avoid toppling forward.

“Miss… Miss, there’s a seat here next to me.”

I twist my head and look into the face of the man sitting beside where I’m standing. He looks safe. Friendly, even. But that doesn’t mean anything.

“Thanks.” I pinch out a smile. “I’m good here.” I remain standing. I prefer it. Better visibility, easier exit. I track reflections in windows, catalog faces without staring. When atall blond man boards three stops in, my heart stutters—wrong jawline, wrong posture, but close enough. I switch cars at the next stop.

The morning light hits the glass facade of the office building as I approach. The Grind & Bean occupies the southeast corner of the lobby, windows on two sides. I arrive twenty minutes early, nodding to the security guard.

“Morning, Juno,” he says. I’ve only been here a couple of weeks, but he already recognizes me in spite of the throngs of execs who stream through here daily.

“Morning, Ed.” I manage a smile that feels almost natural.

Inside, I’m the first to arrive. The espresso machines wait like sleeping beasts. I begin my routine: wiping surfaces, checking stock, counting pastries. When Lisa arrives ten minutes later, relief loosens my shoulders. Female coworker today—one less thing to worry about.

“You’re early again,” she says, tying her apron.

“I like the quiet.” It’s not a lie, just not the whole truth.

By six-thirty, we’re open. The morning rush builds gradually—executives with early meetings, administrative staff preparing for their bosses’ arrivals. I lose myself in the rhythm of orders, the hiss of steam, and the precise movements of creating latte art.

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