Page 1 of Steeped In Problems

Chapter One

Kristy Howard’s phone buzzed with the world’s most annoying chime at 4:55 a.m., and felt it vibrate beside her. She rolled once, twice, slammed the snooze button, and then stared up at the ceiling, feeling the ridiculous mixture of panic and hope that always came with the first day of anything.

“Rise and shine,” she ordered out loud as if it might give her the extra push she needed to peel out from under her cocoon of her grandmother’s quilt. Her toes stuck out of a rip in her comforter, painted soft pink and slightly chipped. She scrunched them in the cool air and let herself smile just a little. Clear Mountain had a way of making mornings feel like anything was possible.

“Today: my first day at the Brave Badge.” It was written on a sticky note beside her phone, in Sharpie, circled three times. The edges had curled overnight. She was going to do great. Probably. Unless she got locked out of the register or spilled scalding coffee on a cop. Or uttered the word “venti” by accident and got excommunicated from Small Town Colorado.

She sat up, her sandy blonde curls instantly defying gravity, and stretched until her spine popped. Out the window, the dawndid its pastel routine over the mountains, blue and purple and gold slicing through the pine trees. She could almost smell snow, except it was April, so maybe just pine cones? Whatever. It was good enough to get moving.

Shower was first on the agenda. She ignored the splattered toothpaste in the sink and the stack of clean towels still sitting in the laundry basket. Kristy had never been the kind of person who “got ready” in the morning. She always felt like she was scrambling to catch up. But she had a plan today. Shower, yes. Tame the hair if she could get it to cooperate. Eat something with protein. Avoid thinking about the hospital.

Fifteen minutes later, shower, check. Hair—she glared at her reflection. Sandy curls frizzed and exploded in every direction. She had tried nearly every product on the shelf at Hank’s Pharmacy, and still, it was more or less Medusa with highlights. She picked up a bottle of “Curl Definer with Extra Hold,” made a cross over her heart, and sprayed until the mirror was fogged. With strategic bobby pin deployment, it looked passable. Maybe even cute.

Outfit was next. She’d already laid it out: a crisp white button-down (thrifted, ironed the night before), black pants (with only one coffee stain near the hem), and the flat black loafers she’d worn for nursing clinicals. Was it too on-the-nose? Did it scream “former nurse, current overthinking barista”? Kristy had no idea. She put it on anyway, rolled up the sleeves, and tugged the shirttail into a half-tuck.

In the kitchen, she ate a banana and two slices of turkey lunch meat, standing. The apartment was small and smelled of dust with a hint of vanilla from her collection of old books, but the view from the kitchen sink was straight out of a postcard. Beyond the balcony, the mountain rose up, snow still clinging to the northern slope, and a bald eagle circled like it had a purpose. Kristy pretended she did, too.

She went back to her tiny bedroom for her purse and keys, and that’s when she saw them. The scrubs. Hanging in the closet, blue and soft and faded in all the places her body used to ache after a twelve-hour shift. The badge reel was still clipped to the neckline, ID facing out like a dare. She stared at it and felt a pinch of regret and a flood of relief. She hadn’t realized how heavy it all was until she didn’t have to wear it anymore.

“Not today,” she whispered to herself. “Not anymore.” Kristy shut the closet door with a definitive click.

On her way to the car, she passed her neighbor, the retired fireman who was always smoking a pipe before sunrise. He grunted a hello, and she raised her travel mug in solidarity. The parking lot was half-empty. Kristy’s car—a battered Corolla with a bumper sticker that said “Do No Harm”—started on the second try, which felt like an omen. She cranked the heat and let the defroster blast her as she navigated out onto the sleepy main street.

Clear Mountain was barely awake. The local bakery was just turning on the sign. A battered pickup from the Parks Department zipped past, bed loaded with orange cones. The entire town smelled like woodsmoke and distant rain. Kristy rolled the window halfway and took in a lungful of it. She let herself relax a little just as she turned onto Main.

The Brave Badge was the exact refuge she had been looking for when she quit nursing a month ago. It sat at the corner of Main and Timber, looking like it had been carved out of the side of a tree. The roof was steep and shingled, with a wooden sign that hung on heavy chains: BRAVE BADGE, block letters burned into the plank. And underneath, someone had painted a coffee cup with a police badge centered on it.

Kristy parked in the empty lot and just stared at the building. It was so much more than the new coffee shop in town. It was a promise. A second chance. She ran her fingers over the steeringwheel and tried to breathe. Tried to picture what it would feel like to belong here. Tried not to psych herself out before she’d even walked inside for her first day as a barista.

The sky was getting lighter, the gold sharpening at the edges of the clouds. She checked her reflection in the rearview. Not bad. She fluffed her curls, adjusted the collar of her shirt, and gave herself a thumbs-up.

“You’ve got this,” she encouraged, and this time it didn’t sound like a lie.

Kristy grabbed her bag, locked the car, and crossed the lot. Each step made her more aware of her heartbeat. The front door was painted blue, with a bell that waited above it. She reached for the handle and paused just long enough to feel the cold through the metal and the possibility behind the glass.

This was it. Her new start. Kristy took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and opened the door.

The first thing Kristy noticed when she stepped inside was the smell. Not just coffee—though it was strong and glorious—but cinnamon and warm bread and something else. Leather, maybe. It felt familiar in her lungs, like the hospital’s burned coffee haze minus the underlying terror from knowing that there was another tragedy waiting around every corner. The walls were wood-planked, decorated with framed photos of local search-and-rescue teams, some in uniform, some grinning with arms slung around each other like they’d just survived something monumental. There were corner booths, mismatched armchairs, and a whole section up front for “badge buddies,” the sign read. Every table had a little metal tent sign: Tell us your hero story.

“Ho-lee Moses, I thought you’d never get here,” said a voice, fast and bright as a firework.

Rhonda stood behind the counter, drying a mug with the energy of a game show host. She had flaming red hair—actualred, not out-of-the-box “auburn”—and the kind of smile that took over her whole face. She wore a Brave Badge T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and black leggings and had two pens and a dry-erase marker stuck behind one ear.

“Sorry, I’m—” Kristy looked at the clock. She was fifteen minutes early. “—early?”

“Rhonda,” the woman introduced, sticking out her hand. “Obviously. I’m your fearless leader-slash-beverage sensei. You must be Kristy.” Her handshake was powerful, and her eyes, huge and blue, did not blink.

“That’s me,” Kristy returned and immediately wanted to crawl under the counter.

Rhonda chuckled. “Let me show you your domain. Apron’s in the bin—no, not that bin, the one with the chicken sticker,” she gestured with her hand. “You’re a medium, right?”

“Large, but I pretend it’s a medium. Makes me feel athletic.” Kristy fumbled into the apron, double-knotting it just to keep her hands busy.

“You’ll fit right in.” Rhonda picked up a mug from the nearby rack and spun toward the espresso machine. “You ever work one of these?”

“Does a Keurig count?” Kristy asked.

“Ha! Bless your heart.” Rhonda pointed at the gleaming beast of buttons and dials. “This is Daisy. Treat her nice, and she’ll make you a star—or at least a competent barista. First rule—never call a drink a venti around here. We’re strictly small, medium, and behemoth.”

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