I’m halfway through re-coiling the 100-foot extension cord when my phone buzzes on the bench beside the turnout gear rack. It’s Addison.
All set for the last-minute touch-ups and lighting dry run? Just want to make sure the orchard setup won’t overwhelm the ceremony arch.
The corners of my mouth tip up before I can stop them. I stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary, replaying the wording. Dry run. Lighting. Ceremony arch. All business. But she’s asking me. Trusting me to know whether we’re ready or not.
“She found an excuse,” I mutter to myself, flipping the phone in my palm. “You’re growing on her.”
I text back quick.
All set, boss. Going to do another pass to add some more lights and secure the ones already there.
There’s no reply yet, but that’s fine. Addison’s probably already in five places at once with a clipboard in one hand and a backup list in the other. I set my phone down and look around the equipment bay, mentally checking off what I’ll need. Lights, anchors, ladder, clips, two reels of low-voltage wire, solar jars. I can muscle most of it on my own, but running everything efficiently would be faster with a few extra hands.
The station’s mostly quiet, the buzz of a distant radio drifting in from the office. Rookie Lee passes through the garage door, eating trail mix straight from the bag. He nods when he sees me.
“You stringing up Christmas lights in September?” he asks, eyebrows raised.
“Orchard lighting test for the wedding setup,” I say, lifting a coil of wire and laying it in the truck bed. “Addison wants to make sure the aisle isn’t overwhelmed.”
Lee pops a raisin in his mouth. “You doing that alone?”
“I was thinking of recruiting some morally questionable labor.”
He grins. “Flattery and caffeine get you an hour.”
“Perfect. Meet me at the orchard in thirty?”
“Done. I’ll bring my gloves. And my playlist.”
I load the ladder and start tying down the gear. The soft slam of the station’s front door makes me look up just as Mrs. Ramirez, one of my kids’ moms, walks in, wearing joggers and a scrub top, her curls piled on top of her head in a no-nonsense knot. She’s holding a tray of coffee mugs and chatting with dispatch. She likes to take care of us.
She spots me and detours. “Please tell me you’re not single-handedly stringing up orchard lights with that busted shoulder.”
I shrug. “Just a few finishing touches before the storm rolls in. Nothing major.”
She sets the mugs on the nearest counter. “Need help?”
“You just got off a shift.”
“Exactly. Which means I’m not due back until noon tomorrow, and my house is full of middle-schoolers who have suddenly discovered TikTok comedy. Please. Help me escape.”
I laugh, but the warmth in my chest catches me off guard. “Seriously, no pressure.”
She waves it off. “You built my boys a ball field when they couldn’t even keep their shoes tied. You show up for people. It’s time we showed up for you.”
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out right away. Instead, I just nod and pass her a pair of gloves. “Fair warning. There will be zip ties.”
“I live for zip ties.”
By the time we’re all at the orchard, the sun’s beginning its slow descent behind the tree line. The space is peaceful, the kind of quiet that makes you breathe deeper. The arch stands off to the side, rough cedar against soft sky, and the grass still bears faint wheel marks from last week. It smells like sun-warmed earth and possibility.
Lee blasts a ridiculous playlist from his truck while we unload. Ramirez sorts the solar jars without asking, instinctively spacing them where they’ll catch the most residual light. I can always count on her to anticipate work to be done and jump right in.
I climb the ladder and start feeding cable through the anchor brackets I installed last week.
The work settles into a rhythm. Bracket, loop, secure, measure, clip. Ramirez keeps the battery packs in order while Lee fumbles a bit with the dimmer settings, mumbling something about wire polarity and his deep distrust of LED tech.
“Okay,” he says. “We’ve been chill, but let’s get to it.”
