Page 1

The sun blasts through the windshield as I pull into Riverbend Ridge Elementary. The school day is almost over, and the place is crawling with sugar-fueled kids. The little gremlins wearing Hello Kitty t-shirts and superhero sneakers run around the playground. God. To have that much energy.

Beckett’s going to owe me big for this one. When he called in the favor last night, he conveniently left out the part where I'd be in the hot seat at Career Day, sharing "valuable insights" with a bunch of ankle-biters and their teachers. The last thing I need is an audience watching me stumble through work stories while I try to figure out how I got suckered into this gig.

I squeeze the truck into a space that feels like it's meant for a bike, then sit for a moment, building up the courage to actually open the door. Kids stream past, their shouts and laughter an unending chorus of chaos, and I take a deep breath. It's now or never.

As soon as I step out, the hot afternoon air assaults me. The concrete path up to the entrance stretches long, too bright, too busy, and entirely too full of potential humiliation.

Every step I take, I'm flanked by chattering parents and sprinting munchkins. One kid shoots by, his arms flailing and I bet he's on a sugar bender.

Why did I let my older brother drag me into this? Oh, right. He’s my boss. Being the youngest of four brothers means I'm accustomed to taking orders, and joining the fire department hasn't changed that. My oldest brother, Beckett, is the Deputy Fire Chief. Dawson, the next in line, is the Fire Inspector. Then there's Atlas, a Fire Captain, and finally, there's me—the humble Lieutenant on the team.

An emergency call to the station would be a welcome relief right about now. I could always fake a pager buzz, but I can practically hear Beckett's teasing already. "Big bad firefighter scared of a few kids?"

The front entrance looms. I'm about to cross into no man's land. The urge to bail is real, but I soldier on, repeating Beckett's promise of free beer for a month like a mantra.

Once inside, I'm hit by a wall of noise that rivals a five-alarm blaze. The place is total bedlam, even by school standards. Kids’ voices echo off the linoleum and concrete, all weirdly distorted like a bad karaoke machine. The telephone rings incessantly at the front office, where two women scurry around with paperwork. I almost turn heel right there, make a run for it, but I know there’s no escaping once you're spotted.

A huge banner reads "Career Day!" in glittery letters. Classrooms are already alive with frantic, colored projects. Teachers weave through the halls with boxes of craft supplies, while kids swap stickers and noise complaints. The air smells like glue sticks and construction paper, childhood and terror. I steady my nerves and take long strides to the front desk, pretending the boldness I don't feel.

And there she is, as unavoidable as always. Ms. Betty. She's ancient but ageless. It seems like she’s been here since the beginning of time itself. Her eyes squint through rhinestone-studded glasses, and the second she recognizes me, they light up with happiness.

“Ian!” she exclaims, eyes wide with recognition as if she just spotted a rare bird. The smile she wears is warm, but I can sense the familiar undertone of caution in her voice. “How have you been?”

“Great.” I give her the smile that’s been getting me out of deep water my entire life. “You’re as beautiful as ever, I see.”

“Still the schmoozer, aren’t you.” She laughs and holds out a visitor pass for me. “I think you’ve gotten even better at it since the last time I saw you.”

“I’ve been working on it.” I wink at her.

“Be good.” She gives me her most stern look.

I hold my hands up in mock surrender. “No promises, Ms. Betty.”

“You remember where the third-grade hallway is, right?” A line starts to form behind me as other professionals come into the office. She points in the direction I need to go. “Straight down the hall. Last room on the right. And Ian… behave.”

“Who, me?” I give her my most charming, innocent smile. The smile that’s gotten me out of countless jams. “I always behave.” I turn and walk down the hall.

As I move past classrooms adorned with colorful student work, I’m filled with a strange mix of nostalgia and dread. Sweat breaks out on my brow. Fuck. I’d rather be just about anywhere but here right now.

I move past faded bulletin boards and ancient school photos and long forgotten memories come out of nowhere to remind me of things best forgotten. The chatter and chaos spin around me, a dizzying mix of noise and color, until it's all I can do to keep my feet moving. If I just keep going, one step at a time, telling myself it’ll be over before I know it. The building's way bigger than I remember.

As I navigate the fluorescent maze, the sensory overload dredges up more childhood nostalgia than I bargained for. Even the weird, metallic tang in the air is familiar enough to knock me off balance. But the fun and games aren't as fun when you’re the one on the hot seat. My mouth goes dry in anticipation of impending awkwardness. I never did like giving presentations. That was Atlas’ specialty.

I'm halfway down the corridor when a rogue soccer ball careens past my feet, nearly taking me out. A gaggle of kids swarms after it, nearly as quick and twice as loud. One kid barrels into my leg, and I brace against the wall. "Careful, buddy."

"Sorry!" He’s already halfway down the hall by the time my words reach him. I’m not used to feeling like a fish out of water, but this career day is definitely out of my element.

The signs outside classrooms list each victim for the day: Doctor Hernandez, Coach Steve, Detective W., Chef Terri, Fireman Ian Hot. My job for the day, courtesy of my dear brother, the dickhead.

I turn a corner and the echo of my footsteps ricochets against the shiny floors, only slightly drowned out by my pulse hammering in my ears. I can see the door to Ms. Higgins' classroom now. It taunts me with the promise of awkward public speaking.

Outside her door, I pause for a moment to collect myself, running a hand through my hair and feeling more like a fidgety third grader than I did when I actually was one. The sign taped to her door reads "3rd Grade: Ms. Sage Higgins." It's in colorful letters, cheery and damning, and I breathe out slowly.

Beckett owes me a year’s worth of beer for this.

I’m about to knock when a crash echoes from down the hall. Someone dropped a crate of supplies, flooding the hallway with finger paints and pipe cleaners. Perfect distraction. I think I see an opening, a chance to ditch before I'm trapped in there. But I know I’m already this far in.

One deep breath. One more. Then, without giving myself the chance to think too much, I grip the handle. Just a half hour, maybe an hour tops. I can survive this.