18. Wade

Chapter eighteen

Wade

T he veterans arrived like early winter shadows, each finding their own space in the shelter's restored main room. We'd roughed in battery-operated lighting that would need replacement soon.

Mike Sullivan settled near the east wall, his usual sketchbook balanced on one knee. Two women in faded Marine Corps sweatshirts chose chairs by the door—tactical positioning I recognized from my early therapy days. A younger man with a 10th Mountain Division patch on his backpack hesitated in the doorway until Mike nodded at the empty chair beside him.

No one spoke. The only sounds were unpacking pencils and charcoals, paper rustling, and the soft scrape of chair legs on concrete. Through the ventilation shaft, the lake wind smelled like approaching snow.

"Coffee's by the north wall." My voice echoed more than I'd expected. "And, uh, there are fancy pastries from Sarah in town."

That earned a few smiles. Sarah's reputation had preceded her. One of the Marine veterans—Peters, according to her name tag—investigated the spread.

"These muffins sparkle." She held one up, examining it like unexploded ordnance. "That can't be regulation."

"Nothing in Blue Harbor is." Mike didn't look up from his sketchbook. "You get used to it."

I moved to the center of the room, fighting the urge to retreat behind my ranger persona. The shelter walls held familiar art—Gran's gentle waves alongside Marcus Beltran's storms—but something had shifted. The space was living again, and I stood at the commencement of my art therapy idea, like a firefighter in the moment before entering a burning building.

"So." I cleared my throat. "We're not here for formal therapy. This is just... a space. For whatever you need it to be."

Peters snorted. "And what we need is art therapy? Drawing pretty pictures to make the noise stop?"

"No." I gestured at the murals. "We're here because sometimes words get stuck. Sometimes they're not enough." My hand shook slightly as I pulled out one of my sketches—not from Chicago, but from last week. "Sometimes a single line says more than hours of talking."

A younger man—Martinez, according to his name tag—leaned forward. The name hit hard, but I fought back a visceral response. "That's Eagle Point, isn't it? The way the cliff edges look ready to crumble?"

I nodded, surprised he'd caught that detail. The sketch showed the limestone face during the last storm, all precarious angles and uncertain shadows. I'd drawn it after a nightmare, trying to capture how solid ground could transform into empty air between one heartbeat and the next.

"You're that firefighter who became a ranger." The other Marine—Wilson—spoke for the first time. She'd chosen charcoal from the supplied materials, her fingers already smudged gray. "You're the one who pulls people back from the edges."

Mike's pencil stopped moving. The silence stretched until I found my voice. "Sometimes the edges find us. Even here."

"Yeah." Martinez's laugh held no humor. "Like how I can't sleep without checking the perimeter three times, but I can't explain to my kid why daddy has to count all the windows."

Wilson's charcoal made angry black marks on her paper. "Or why certain sounds make you hit the deck in the middle of Walmart."

"Or why—" Peters stopped, staring at her hands. "Why you can't handle confined spaces anymore. Why you need to see exits."

I pulled out more of my sketches and laid them on the center table. Years of therapy distilled into graphite and shadow—Chicago's flames, Blue Harbor's steadying pines, and finally, Holden emerging from morning mist with his camera.

"Start anywhere." My voice was steadier now. "There's no wrong way to tell your story."

Martinez picked up a pencil, testing its weight like an unfamiliar weapon. "I don't know what to draw."

"Draw what keeps you up at night." Mike spoke without looking up. "Draw what makes you check the windows. Draw why you're here."

The sound of pencils and charcoal on paper filled the room. No one spoke, but the silence felt different now—pregnant with possibility rather than threat. I moved between them, watching stories emerge in other hands.

Wilson's charcoal created explosive patterns, shrapnel frozen in flight. Peters drew doorways, endless doorways, some opening into light and others into darkness. Martinez's lines were precise and mathematical as if he were trying to create safety through geometry.

"I can't get this right." Peters' voice cracked as she crumpled another paper. "It's all wrong."

"Show me." I pulled a chair up beside her, remembering my first therapy sessions. "What are you trying to capture?"

"The door." Her hands shook. "The one I couldn't—that we couldn't—" She stopped, breathing hard.

"Here." I laid a fresh sheet before her. "Start with just one line. Not the whole door. Just the edge that matters most."

Peters drew a single vertical line, dark and heavy. "That's where it jammed. Where Martinez—" She swallowed hard. "Not your Martinez. Our Martinez. She was right there, and the door—"

"Keep going." My voice stayed level while my hands itched to take the pencil and show her how art could carry the weight of memory without breaking. "Show me what happened next."

She added another line, then another. The door took shape beneath her fingers, not just its physical form but its emotional weight. Other veterans drifted closer, drawn by the story emerging on her paper.

"I know that door," Wilson whispered. Her charcoal sketch lay abandoned, all sharp angles and explosive force. "Not the same one, but—"

"Yeah." Peters' pencil moved faster now. "They're all that door, aren't they? Every stuck handle, every moment we couldn't—"

Martinez—this Martinez, not the one lost behind Peters' door—reached for fresh paper. "In the mountains, it was a cave entrance. Local intel said insurgents were using it for weapons storage." His lines were still precise, but now they appeared to vibrate, even throb. "We were so focused on what might be inside, we didn't check—"

"The high ground." Mike finished the comment. "There's always high ground."

I watched their stories spill onto paper, each one different but connected by threads of understanding. They drew their doors, their caves, their moments of before and after. Some added color; others stayed with stark graphite lines. Wilson's charcoal explosions became something else—a record of survival rather than destruction.

"Show them yours." Mike's voice cut through my observation. "The warehouse."

My throat closed. The other veterans looked up, pencils pausing.

"I don't—"

"Yes, you do." Mike's eyes held mine. "You've been carrying it since Chicago. Maybe it's time to drop it and let us all see."

My hands trembled as I pulled out the sketch I'd sworn would never see daylight. The paper was soft from years of folding and unfolding, the lines almost grey from age. I'd drawn it the night after the warehouse fire, sitting in a hospital corridor while doctors worked on my burns.

"The support beams were already compromised." The words scraped my throat. "We didn't know—couldn't have known—but I've replayed it a thousand times. Looking for the moment, I should have seen..."

Peters touched the corner of my sketch. "The moment that would have changed everything."

"Yeah."

Martinez studied the drawing. "But that's not all of it, is it? There's another sketch you need to show."

He meant the one from last week—the same scene but drawn from a different perspective. Where the first sketch showed flames and failure, the second...

I pulled it from my folder. In this version, light broke through the smoke. The support beams still fell, but now the sketch showed both destruction and the moment after, the moment of survival.

"You drew both." Wilson's voice was soft. "The thing that broke you and the thing that made you whole."

"Not whole." The admission came easier than expected. "But healing. Like the shelter walls—Marcus Beltran's storms are balanced by Isabella's gentle waves. Both stories need telling."

"Balance," Mike echoed, adding a final line to his own work. "Like a ranger who used to run from fires, finally finding his way back through art."

"And a Marine who throws pine cones at hikers when they startle him," I shot back, earning surprised laughs from the group.

Peters held up both my sketches. "Can we... can we try that? Drawing the before and after?"

"That's why we're here." I started distributing fresh paper. "Sometimes you need to draw both versions to find your way forward."

The sound of creation once again filled the room. They drew their befores and afters, their broken pieces and healing edges. Some spoke quietly, sharing fragments of stories. Others worked in silence. Mike moved between them like a quiet shadow, offering technical suggestions that conveyed a deeper meaning.

I watched them work, these warriors learning to be artists, and I thought about Holden. About how he'd taught me to find so much beauty in broken places.

The late morning sun slipped through the ventilation shaft, warming the scattered artwork spread across every surface. Some pieces were raw, bleeding emotion onto paper. Others showed careful control, each line measured and precise. All of them told the truth.

"Time check." Mike's quiet announcement scattered the creative focus. "Some of us have physical therapy at the VA."

Peters studied her final sketch—the door transformed into something else that spoke of loss and survival. "What do we do with these?"

"Whatever you need to." I gestured at the shelter walls. "We can store them here, add them to the visitor center display, or—"

"Burn them?" Wilson's lips were still firm and flat, but her eyes were lighter than when she'd arrived.

Martinez gathered his geometric patterns with careful hands. "I'd like to show my kid. Maybe not all of them, but... this one." He held up a drawing where straight lines softened into curves, order emerging from chaos. "Help him understand why daddy counts windows."

"The shelter's open every morning." My voice stayed steady despite the tightness in my chest. "Same time, same coffee. Same ridiculous pastries. You can come and draw or just sit. No pressure."

They packed up slowly, some pieces going into folders while others found homes on the walls. Mike helped arrange them, using his curator's eye to find natural groupings—darkness and light, broken and healing, before and after.

Peters paused at the door. "Your photographer—the one who documents the park's healing? Will he..."

"No photos without permission." It was a promise. This space is yours—your stories, your terms."

She nodded, tension easing from her shoulders. "Next week, then."

After they left, Mike and I stood in comfortable silence. The shelter felt different—charged with new energy. My first sketch still lay on the center table, but it no longer carried the same weight.

"You did good, Forrester." Mike's voice was gruff. "Counted four different breathing patterns evening out while they worked. Wilson's hands stopped shaking after the third sketch."

"They did the work. I just—"

"Showed them it was possible." He picked up my Chicago sketches—both versions—and placed them carefully on the wall. "Showed them that survival looks different for everyone."

I touched the newer drawing, where light broke through the smoke. "Holden taught me that. How to see past the darkness."

"Yeah, well." Mike's smile was subtle but real. "Some of us need a photographer's eye to find our way back. Others need a ranger who understands that healing isn't about erasing the scars, but learning to carry them without fear."

He headed for the door, then paused. "You know what this means, right?"

"That Sarah will insist on even more elaborate pastries next week?"

"That too." His laugh was unexpected and genuine. "But I meant the next step. The part where you stop waiting for happiness like it's something you have to earn."

Understanding bloomed. He wasn't just talking about the program.

I stared at the wall where new stories mingled with old ones—fresh sketches beside Gran's waves and Marcus's storms. "You think I'm still holding back."

"I know you are." Mike gathered his supplies with military precision. "Same way you hesitated before taking that first sip of coffee this morning. Like you're not sure you deserve good things."

He was right. Even now, with the therapy program launching successfully and Holden's career expanding in exciting directions, I kept waiting for the other boot to drop. I kept expecting happiness to evaporate like morning fog.

"Jenkins used to say something." The memory surfaced unexpectedly. "About how we spend so much time preparing for fires that we forget to build homes."

"Smart man."

"Yeah." I touched one of Martinez's geometric drawings where precision gave way to organic curves. "He also said I overthought."

Mike shouldered his pack. "Thinking's not the problem. It's the waiting. You've built something here, Forrester. Program, purpose, partnership—none of it's temporary. None of it's going to disappear if you fully claim it."

The shelter held its breath. New art covered its walls—not just memories of trauma but proof of survival and healing.

"I have my grandfather's ring." The words emerged before I could overthink them. "My mother's father, not my dad's. He gave it to me before he died, said to save it for someone who made me believe in second chances."

Mike's expression didn't change, but his eyes crinkled slightly. "That's what all this is about, isn't it? Second chances, new stories, different ways of seeing old wounds."

"You think it's too soon?"

"I think time stops meaning much when you've walked through fire and found something worth living for on the other side." He gestured at the artwork surrounding us. "Look what happened here today. People walked in carrying darkness and walked out carrying something else. Something like hope."

"You know what else Jenkins used to say?" I smiled at the memory. "That the best firefighters know when to stop planning and start living."

"Sounds like my old Gunny. He'd say 'analysis paralysis kills more Marines than bad intel.'" Mike's hand found my shoulder. "Go find your photographer, Forrester. Show him what happened here today. Then show him what could happen tomorrow."

After he left, I stood alone in the shelter, surrounded by art that spoke of endings and beginnings. My hand found the ring box in my pocket—carried for weeks, waiting for the right moment.

Mike was right. There was no perfect moment or guaranteed safe time to step off the edge and trust someone to catch you. There was only now.

I gathered my sketches—both versions, both truths—and headed for the door. Holden would be at the Bean, probably reviewing gallery proposals and worrying about balancing his growing opportunities with our life here.

It was time to show him he didn't have to choose. It was time to show him that some stories could hold everything—darkness and light, past and future, broken places and healing hearts.

Time to stop preparing for fires and start building something fireproof.