Left of Forever by Tarah DeWitt (Excerpt)

CHAPTER 1

ELLIS

It’s when my stomach growls as I watch a buzzard peck at a charred animal carcass that I realize I haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. “Shit,” I mutter under my breath.

I peel off my helmet and wipe at the salt on my brow, wondering how long I’d been standing there before I turn and start to make my way up the scorched hill, boots crunching across the blackened earth. Everything is black, as far as any of us can see. I search the sky, begging for signs of rain, but only find more endless hazy gray. I hear the whir of a distant helicopter, the buzz of a few chainsaws, and the crack and rip of a snag before it thunks to the ground.

“Break time,” I call out to one of the rookie firefighters nearby. I can’t recall her name. Hardly remember any names, in fact, but this isn’t my regular crew. I’m not sure how I ended up in charge of this particular group, but then again, I’m never sure how I end up leading anyone. It’s definitely not through any pursuit on my part.

A resounding chorus of relief goes out around me as the message gets passed across the hillside, and everyone starts the trek for the top.

“I love package day,” the rookie eagerly says as she catches up to my side. Her bouncy excitement reminds me of my brother Silas. The thought fills my dry mouth with ash.

I lengthen my stride, feet hitting the ground like I might stomp out the memory of Silas’s silhouette being engulfed in flames as he skidded down a mountainside a few months ago. An intubation, an induced coma, and multiple weeks in the ICU later; he thankfully made it out with some gnarly scars and his uninhibited (vexing) nature well intact. It left those of us who love him with invisible scars of our own, though, which is why the rest of my regular crew is back home in Spunes, taking some time off.

I, however, needed out. Sitting around Spunes would only continuously remind me of everything I can’t control and all that I’m helpless to fix. Like my heartbroken sister with her sad smiles as she tries to push through. We all watched Sage fall in the kind of love that alters you this past summer, and I can’t take watching as she grieves it now. Fisher and his niece moved back to New York, and I know in my goddamn marrow that they belong back in Spunes with Sage, but … but I guess I rarely know as much as I think I do. Then there’s Silas, who made it clear he was tired of my hovering over his rehab progress. Micah, my other brother, is off in California still giving baseball his best shot, far out of my reach. And then, of course … there’s Wren. My ex-wife.

“What’s on the menu today?” says the rookie breathlessly.

“What?” I can’t hide the annoyance in my tone.

“What’d you pack for lunch, I mean?” she asks, unfazed. The name tag on her uniform says Kirby.

I let out a curse. I meant to grab a few things from the continental breakfast at the hotel and am only now realizing that I forgot to pack any food altogether.

Kirby chuckles. “No lunch?”

I shake my head and grind my jaw, my stomach voicing its complaints again.

“Married, then, huh?”

I stop in my tracks and glare down at her. “What the hell brought you to that conclusion?” Is it that obvious that I’m only half of something still?

Kirby puts her palms up in surrender. “In my experience, it’s the married people who forget to eat and pack food. That’s all. Used to either having someone to remind you or someone to take care of you, I guess.”

I grunt and continue on toward the truck. I imagine there has to be something in there I can scrounge up to eat.

“Wait,” Kirby continues. “Hold up, boss! Care package day, remember?”

That’s right. I pivot and barely refrain from running, the hunger gnawing at me viciously. The care packages we get don’t all come with edible goods, but local schools, churches, and various organizations like to send whatever small aid they can to keep up morale on these long fires. I’ll either have to get to the pile early to find one that looks promising for food, or I’ll have to be a dick and pull rank. I spot a few firefighters already gathered around the collection, opening up handmade cards and bags of chips with sooty smiles. My eyes catch on a pink box a few yards away, and my target is determined, feet kicking up in a jog. I swipe the box just as a fellow captain reaches for it. He snaps his hand back with a shocked laugh.

He says something about pink being my color, but I’m already surging away, yanking out my pocketknife with shaky hands before I tear into it. I barely register the sight of something that looks like a biscuit before I find a tree to lean up against and shove the whole thing in my mouth like a rabid animal. A moan escapes me before I’m aware of it. I haven’t even swallowed the first before I’m reaching for a second, which is when multiple things come into focus.

The first is the series of flavors that invade my senses. Marionberry. Lemon. A hint of Earl Grey. My body is sliding down the tree trunk as each one washes over me, until I hit the ground with a thud.

The second is the label on the side of the insulated pink box. I know this logo, the silhouettes of two wrens woven into the design. I know these damned boxes well, too. Spent many an August-tourist-season night at a bakery putting them together each year.

The third is a letter poking out of the hastily opened box. I drop the scone in my hand, but pick it up and dust it off despite myself. I haven’t had one of these in … in, well, over four years now. I stare at the thing—this innocuous fucking scone. It shouldn’t elicit this strong of a reaction in me. God, I know it shouldn’t. It’s a goddamned pastry.

But it’s also sleepless nights in a rocking chair, the witching hours when we couldn’t go back to bed, and drifted into a kitchen instead. Our toddler son dancing on the kitchen island to Right Said Fred until we had tears leaking from our eyes. It’s my wife in an apron, wild blond and bronze curls escaping their tie. It’s playful food fights that lead to stripping her out of her clothes, tracing the marks where her body had stretched for our family with flour dusted fingers.

This scone is everything good, before it wasn’t anymore.

I set the box down beside me and pull out the envelope. I slide a trembling finger beneath the edge to pry it apart, pulling out the paper inside. My eyes immediately go to the bottom where it’s been signed: Salem Meridian—Wren’s middle and maiden name.

A possessive urge tears through me. It’s the same spike of emotion that had me embarrassing us both at one of our town meetings last summer, when someone referred to her by her maiden name and I couldn’t stop myself from reminding them (and by extension the whole town) that she’s still a Byrd. We’ve been divorced for over four years, but her last name is still Byrd, so … she is still a Byrd.

In any case, the package is clearly from Wren herself. Not something thrown together by her mom or any of the other bakery employees at Savvy’s.

The handwriting is familiar, but nothing I could have picked out of a lineup if I hadn’t recognized the name combination at the bottom. Should I recognize her handwriting? This is a person I learned to write alongside, someone I shared a whole life with. Did we really become that distant? I can’t pinpoint why this makes me feel like I swallowed something jagged.

I guess I could blame modern technology. It’s not as if we handwrote anything much to one another when we’d been married.

So … distant is probably a mild word for what we became toward the end. And no matter that we co-parent well enough, we’re beyond distant now. Proven by the fact that she even sent this care package here, I think. If she’d had any indication I was working this Colorado border fire, I doubt she’d have sent something here. I get a fast, nasty lick of hope that maybe she was aware, somehow, but I smother it just as quickly. As far as I know, we’ve gone out of our way to avoid as much information as we can about each other since the split.

I really only slipped up once. It had been six months into the divorce when I broke down and made the mistake of asking Sage if Wren had started dating, and after seeing her get pale and visibly uncomfortable, I couldn’t stand the idea of putting any of our friends or family in that awkward position again.

No … I’m certain Wren hasn’t cared to stay updated on my whereabouts, and even if she had, she would’ve had to find out through Silas, by proxy. Per his wishes, I’ve been giving him space, so he has no idea, anyway. None of my family know I’m here.

I realize I’m clutching the paper so hard it’s creasing, and immediately loosen my hold. I take a deep breath and another bite of a scone before I read.

Dear Stranger—

I have no idea how long I agonized over how to address this letter, but To Whom It May Concern felt too stiff, and Dear Firefighter felt too silly. I’ll admit that Dear Stranger felt corny to open with somehow, but for all I know, you could be a complete piece of shit (which will be decided based on your reply or lack thereof to this letter, by the way), so beginning this with Dear Friend felt phony. Maybe you’re not very dear at all, and Friend? I have some truly great friends, so that’s a title I hold in too high regard to assign willy-nilly.

First off, I hope you enjoyed the scones! Who are we kidding, of course you did if you have any taste at all. If not, please lie. I’ve taken all the care I could in packaging them so that they arrive in perfect condition. If they’re stale, I’m sorry, but please do your best not to hold that against me. I can assure you they were flawless when I sent them.

Now to the reason I’m writing this letter (and if I’m honest, why I’ve sneaked it off to you under the bribery of scones) … You see, I desperately need someone to get me some information.

Last week, I saw news coverage of the fire, specifically an interview of an older couple at one of the evacuation centers who spoke tearfully about a pair of their horses getting loose in the chaos of them fleeing. A beautiful dapple-gray Clydesdale and an equally beautiful palomino quarter horse. The woman talked about how these horses shared a special bond, and all they’d been through together. I won’t risk boring you with all the details—I’m already worried enough that you won’t read this thing in its entirety, so I’ll keep it as concise as possible. When one of the horses panicked and bolted, the other followed.

I’m writing to you, dear stranger (see? Not as weird now ((god, I hope I get exponentially lucky and you’re a woman. Lord knows every fire department needs more of them (((Yes, you’ll have to trust and believe me that I KNOW this to be the case. I’ve got family and friends in the field.))). But I am writing to you, dear stranger, in the hopes that you might be able to tell me what ended up becoming of the pair.

Please do your best not to be annoyed that some crazy woman is bothering you to track down this information while you’re busy saving homes and lives. It’s just that (not to pile on the pressure or anything), but YOU are my last hope, whoever you are. I’ve contacted the news station to try to find out the names of the owners, since they weren’t disclosed in the story. I’ve tirelessly searched online every day. Even as I scribble that word, “tireless” seems like it must be incorrect because I am EXHAUSTED. I’m not sleeping, instead lying awake and wondering what happened to them. I’ve even joined as many of the local neighborhood Facebook groups as possible that will let me in without verification. Dear stranger, I cannot tell you how little time I have to get invested in all of the suburban soap operas playing out in these groups! Did you know that someone on their morning runs has been dropping trou and pooping on people’s lawns?! I won’t detract from my message here to get too far into it, but just know these people have their cameras ready to catch the poo-poo perpetrator.

Back to my problem, though. I simply need closure. I need to know if those two beautiful creatures made it out of that cataclysmic thing, and … and I need to know if they didn’t, too. Please don’t be afraid to tell me if they didn’t make it, I simply want need to know. You can write me back and mail to the bakery address on the box, or you can call the number that is printed there, too. Whichever you’re most comfortable with. I’m not giving you my personal number because who knows if you’re a complete pervert or not.

Sincerely (hopeful),

Salem Meridian

P.S. If they were caught in the blaze … at least tell me … were they together in the end?


LEFT OF FOREVER. Copyright © 2025 by Tarah DeWitt.