Chapter One
Ruby
“I’m going to be cleaning glitter out of this thing for years.”
I throw my keys into the center console with a sigh. My car smells like sunscreen, and the passenger seat looks like a craft hour exploded. Still, I can’t help the smile that creeps onto my face—working at a summer camp is worth it.
The schedule is intense…sunrise hikes, team-building games, rowdy campfires. But out here, close to nature—I’m free. Free and healing from the pain of my past.
And I finally have some time off.
This afternoon and evening are mine. All mine. No screaming kids, no bug spray in my hair, no Doug lurking around like a sad-eyed Labrador who thinks “no thanks” means “try harder.”
The engine sputters to life, and the radio starts mid-song—something twangy and hopeful. It fits the mood.
I don’t know anyone in town. Not really. I’ve only been in Sun Valley for two weeks, and between camp counselor training and long, sticky days wrangling preteens, I haven’t had much of a chance to explore. But I saw this quirky little shop on Main Street when the camp bus rolled through last week—glass windows cluttered with dream catchers, ceramic mushrooms,and a crooked sign that said “Knick & Knack” in neon pink letters.
It called to me.
Okay, mostly because I’m hoping to add to my weird little snow globe collection. Don’t ask me how it started. I just…needed something. A way to mark the places I’ve been. Maybe to prove to myself that I’ve kept going. Even when it felt like I couldn’t.
The first globe was from Jackson Hole. I went there with my parents and Morgan a year before the accident. I don’t shake that one too hard, because it has a crack in the bottom now, and I’m terrified it’ll burst open and leak glitter water all over the shelf in my room. But I can’t throw it away. None of them. They’re like little frozen memories, tiny worlds where things still make sense.
I pass a field of yellow wildflowers swaying in the breeze and crank the window down. The air smells like pine and sun. Idaho in summer is magical, healing in its own way. Quiet. Honest. Like it’s not trying to be anything but what it is.
I munch a handful of Goldfish crackers as I drive—the rainbow ones, obviously. They’re my guilty pleasure, even if the orange ones still taste the best. I tap the steering wheel and hum along with the radio, letting the miles slip by under my tires.
Then I hit a wall of brake lights.
I frown and slow to a crawl, pulling to the side like everyone else. Something’s wrong up ahead. There’s a sharp smell in the air, something acrid…biting. Then I see the smoke. A few cars in front of me, a woman gets out with her phone in hand, scanning the sky. I roll down my window and stick my head out.
Holy crap.
There’s a fire on the hillside.
The smoke is thick and fast, roiling in dark gray plumes. It’s not far from the highway, maybe a quarter mile, and it’s moving faster than I thought it would. Flames lick up the dry grass, and small trees are already curling inward like paper. A few red trucks are clustered down by the edge, men in yellow gear hauling hoses and barking orders, but it feels…chaotic. Like they’re losing ground.
The fire’s not huge. Not yet. But I’ve seen enough YouTube videos to know how quickly that can change.
I put my car in park and step out, clutching the bag of Goldfish like it might save me. The heat brushes my face, dry and brutal, even from this distance. A few others stand near their cars, watching with wide eyes. Nobody’s panicking yet, but there’s tension in the air, a ripple of uncertainty.
Then I hear it.
A deep, whirring thunder that builds until it’s overhead. I glance up, hand shielding my eyes.
A chopper.
It swings in low and fast, and I swear, it looks like something out of a war movie. The rotors beat against the sky, and dangling below the helicopter is a massive red bucket. It dips, veering toward the riverbank just beyond the trees. Then it rises again, bucket now full of river water, and hovers for just a moment before swinging around and diving toward the fire.
The bucket tilts.
A waterfall crashes down on the flames, steam hissing into the air like a snake. The line of fire breaks, then splinters.
Everyone around me cheers. I blink in awe. The whole thing feels like a scene from a movie.
The pilot isn’t just flying the helicopter, he’s dancing with it. Threading the needle between trees, curving like it’s part of his body. He comes back around, dips for another load, and does it again. And again.
It’s working. The fire is still growing, and now it’s fighting back. But the pilot is relentless.
