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Memories are predators.
They wait in the dark. They don’t knock. They slip in the second your guard drops—and mine always does in the wee small hours.
It’s been two weeks since the trailer fire in the 1300 block of Gasman Rd. I haven’t slept more than an hour at a time.
I earned this leave, they said. But it doesn’t feel like recovery. It feels like exile.
No one said it outright—no one had to—but it was because of the boy. Jesus, he was only five.
Every conversation since has had a second layer. One I’m not invited to correct.
I was awake before I opened my eyes. I stare at the ceiling, unmoving, counting the lines in the plaster I’ve counted every day since I landed in this shit-hole one-bedroom. Still twelve. If I lie here long enough—and I usually do—I distract myself by counting the seconds between the freight train rumbling across the city and the way the bed shivers when it hits. The kind of sound that vibrates through bone more than air. Sometimes I pretend it’s the start of an extinction-level event… I’m never that lucky.
It’s a far cry from where I expected to be at 44.
This city isn’t loud. But it’s not quiet either. Seattle breathes in slow traffic and ferry horns, tired music bleeding from cracked windows, neighbors arguing through drywall thin enough to tear. It’s less intense than L.A. or Chicago—no gentler, just different. What sets it apart—besides the coffee—is the rain. Or usually, the rain.
May in Seattle should be wet—the kind of wet that soaks the marrow. But not this year. We’re in a drought, the worst in twenty-four years. The streets are dry. The air is dry. Skin dry… my humor. I never thought I’d miss the rain, but I do.
Phoenix is at the door. Same spot he always sleeps now. He doesn’t bark anymore. I don’t know if it’s his age or just the wisdom you earn with it. He just watches. Just lays there, his ears twitching like a guard who’s given up. He’s waiting for me to get up. Or waiting for me not to.
The Zippo’s on the nightstand. I pick it up before I even think. It’s not conscious now. It’s a ritual. A cope. A stim.
Cold metal. A dull kind of heavy. The engraving catches what little light there is.
“As it was, so shall it be.”
And beneath it, a symbol I used to think I understood. I always thought it was an ouroboros until Brooke pointed out the snake wasn’t eating its own tail. And, shit, she was right—there’s no tail being devoured. Just two snake heads facing each other, mouths open, not biting. Not yet. Like they’re waiting for the other to move first. I don’t know what it means, but it feels significant … always has.
My father gave it to me the day he went to prison in ’92. Dropped it in my hand like it was an heirloom.
“All the answers to life right here, boy,” he said.
I never talked to him again. Thankfully. He died in prison during the pandemic.
I haven’t filled it since. Lit it once. That was enough. I flip it open and close it now like a meditation, but I don’t have the guts to light it again. Not after what it did … what I did.
I sit up. My vintage Nirvana Vestibule t-shirt twisted around me like I’d been fighting in my sleep. Screenstars on the tag, holes at the seams. It used to mean something. Now it just fits. But I wear it after all these years like some part of me still thinks I’m twenty and angry for better reasons. The bedsheets are damp. I reach under the mattress and slide out the orange bottle.
The label’s torn, but I don’t need to read it.
I don’t drink. Not because I’m strong, but because my father showed me what I would do if I did. Ketamine was the thing that broke me. It started slow. Sleeplessness. Numbness. A whisper of curiosity. A promise of relief.
I never told anyone. Not the Chief. Not the union. Brooke and her mother knew because they figured it out. They lived with me every day, they knew who I was and who I wasn’t and who I was becoming. They found the telltale orange bottles that I could never hide well enough.
The night I almost lost my life was the night I lost my marriage. I stopped after that. Cold turkey. That was two months ago. I don’t need rehab—at least that’s what I told myself—but that didn’t stop Brooke from insisting. I promised her I’d at least give AA a shot.
I haven’t gone yet.
She texted me this morning—one of her rarer check-ins. “How’s AA going?”
No emoji. No follow-up.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth.
There’s a meeting tonight. Fremont Hooters, of all places. I’ll go. For her.
I twist the cap and hold it open. Shake one loose into my palm.
Just one…
…maybe just a half.
I tell myself it’s just to sleep. Just to quiet the noise for a bit. But I’ve said that before.
I look down at the pill. It’s not even that big.
Brooke’s sticker stares back at me from the bottle—“Not Today, Satan,” crooked and peeling. She gave it to me after I promised to quit, thinking it was funny. She’d be pissed if she knew I still had these.
I close the bottle.
Not now. Just for emergencies.
I tuck it back under the mattress like hiding it counts as progress.
I make it into the kitchen. The coffee is stale, but hot. A crime in Seattle. I sip it with my back against the counter. The floor’s sticky near the fridge. I don’t care enough to find out why. The microwave blinks 3:33 like it’s trying to send me a message.
Phoenix finally pads in. His nails make that soft ticking sound on the old laminate. He walks like he doesn’t want to interrupt anything. An old Shepherd is a pure gentleman.
I look at myself in the microwave door. The reflection’s warped. A funhouse version of the man I used to be. Bloodshot eyes. Hair too long. A face that stopped trying to smile months ago.
I find the remote and turn on reruns for company. The classics always hit best. Old friends who require me to be and do nothing.
I should call Brooke. But I already know she won’t answer. She’s with her mother. I feel like she hasn’t said more than ten words to me since the divorce.
I still get the occasional text from her—usually asking for money. She says she’s busy, and maybe she is. Between espresso shifts and whatever lab she’s stuck in at UW, I doubt she has much left for me.
Or maybe she just doesn’t know what to say anymore.
Brooke wants to believe it’s over.
I think she does.
But part of her is still standing in the doorway of that bathroom where she found me—curled on the tile, covered in my own vomit. I’m afraid she doesn’t want to get close in case I slip again.
I don’t blame her. I earned the distance.
I walk into the living room and open the window to finish my cigar from the night before. The air outside is dry—bone dry. A ferry horn moans from Elliott Bay. Somewhere, someone slams a door hard enough to shake the floorboards. My next-door neighbor’s blasting Kanye again—same two songs on a loop. Like he’s trying to summon something.
It feels like the city doesn’t want me back. Like I’m on my own.
But I’m still here. And I guess that counts for something.
The Zippo clicks shut. I toss it back on the counter. It skitters and lands next to my phone. Phoenix perks up.
The voicemail light blinks like an unwelcome guest.
It’s the Chief.
I haven’t spoken to him for more than a few minutes since the fire.
I let the message sit for a minute. Then two. Then I press play.
His voice is clipped and professional. He’s not angry, but not kind either. He came here from Boston, and you know it the second he starts talking:
“Ya not gotta call me back. But you know you can’t fuckin’ dodge me fuh-evah. It’s been two weeks on trauma leave, and I’m startin’ to think maybe you just… left. Aiden, swing by the station when you’re ready. Shit—now’s good. We’ll keep it simple. I’m worried about you, kid.”
I close my eyes and lean against the counter. The breath came out like a groan that never got loud.
I don’t want to go.
But I will.
I open and close the Zippo one more time. That sound—a comfort and a warning.
I glance once more at the warped reflection in the microwave door and grab my keys.
Some mornings, survival feels like punishment
Next episode: Debrief »
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Step Into the Fire: Burn Season’s Immersive Storyworld on X
While Burn Season unfolds one episode at a time, the story doesn’t stop between updates.
Follow the characters in real time on X.com as they post their thoughts, fears, and fragments of the truth they’re barely holding onto.
Each character has their own X account—so you’re not just reading their story.
You’re living alongside them.
The first account is now live:
@firelinevigil – Aiden Trusov, the former firefighter turned firewatcher, spiraling into isolation and paranoia deep in the Washington wilderness.
Through Aiden’s posts, you’ll get:
Unfiltered glimpses into his unraveling thoughts
Strange dispatches from the tower
Clues hidden in plain sight
Raw emotional tension as the fire season creeps closer
More character accounts will unlock as new episodes drop.
Follow them to catch hidden details, backstory reveals, and eerie connections that never show up in the main text.
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