Page 3

BLAZE

I wake up feeling like I've been hit by a tour bus.

Every muscle screams in protest as I roll over, squinting at the sunlight just starting to stream through the thin curtains of Shane's guest room.

Who designed a bedroom with east-facing windows and no blackout curtains?

Probably the same sadist who invented morning people.

Already I can hear the bustling sounds of productive humanity outside. Voices calling to each other, engines starting, the clatter of things being loaded and unloaded. Who the hell voluntarily gets up at sunrise?

I pull the pillow over my head, but it's too late. I'm awake. My back feels like I've been sleeping on rocks, and my hands--I examine them in the morning light--are actually blistered. From one day of work. Pathetic.

The door swings open without a knock, and Shane appears with a steaming mug. The coffee smell hits me first, and I sit up a little too eagerly.

"Morning, superstar," he says, handing me the mug. Before I can properly appreciate the caffeine, he tosses something at me. I catch it reflexively in my other hand. It’s a pair of worn leather work gloves. "Time to be useful. Grace needs help running supply drops today."

Before answering, I take a long sip of my coffee. "I think I've filled my manual labor quota for the decade. Besides, I'm pretty sure Grace would rather work with a rabid wolverine."

Shane shrugs, completely unmoved by my pain. "You can stew in here, or you can make yourself useful. Up to you."

He turns to leave, and I blurt out, "She probably thinks I'm useless, anyway."

Shane pauses in the doorway. "Only one way to change her mind."

I groan, knowing I'm being manipulated but unable to stop myself from falling for it. The thought of Grace dismissing me as some lazy poser celebrity is somehow worse than the physical pain of getting out of bed.

"Fine," I mutter. "Give me fifteen minutes."

Thirty minutes later, because a rock star is never on time, I find Grace loading the last of several boxes into her ancient pickup truck. The vehicle looks like it survived multiple apocalypses, held together by rust and stubborn determination, kind of like the town itself.

"You're late," she says without looking up.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine."

She finally turns, eyeing me from boots to bedhead. "Shane said you volunteered."

"That's a creative interpretation of events."

A ghost of a smile flickers across her face. "Get in. We've got twelve stops today."

The truck's interior smells like soil, coffee, and something vaguely floral that I can't place. Grace drives with practiced efficiency, navigating the rural roads while occasionally consulting a handwritten list.

"So what exactly are we delivering?" I ask, peering into the truck bed through the back window.

"Food staples, medicine, supplies. Some folks can't make it into town easily, and others have no desire to leave their property, so I deliver."

Our first stop is a farmhouse where an elderly couple greets Grace like she's their favorite granddaughter. Their eyes widen when they see me.

"Is that--" the woman starts.

"Blaze Nelson," I confirm, offering my hand. "Temporary delivery boy."

"Well, I never," she says, flustered. "I have your first album somewhere."

Her husband squints at me. "You the fella who set that hotel on fire in Vegas?"

"That was actually a misunderstanding involving a cigarette, one of my bandmates, and some very flammable drapes," I explain, feeling Grace's eyes on me.

"Hm," the man grunts, clearly unimpressed. "Well, come on in. Leave your cigarettes outside." He gives me a pointed look.

"I don't smoke." I hold up my hands, and the man grunts again.

Inside, Grace efficiently unpacks their supplies while I stand awkwardly by. The couple's living room walls are covered with family photos spanning decades. A lifetime in one place. The concept is so foreign to me it might as well be science fiction.

"How are you holding up, Earl?" Grace asks as she checks off items on her list.

"Well enough," he sighs.

"I'm also supposed to remind you about your doctor’s appointment next week."

"Here it is! Will you sign it for me?" The old lady walks in with a CD case of my first album, in almost brand new condition, and a Sharpie.

"Of course. What's your name?" I ask.

"Martha. Just wait until I tell my sister about this. She will just cry herself to sleep!" she says with a huge smile.

I sign the CD for her with a personal note and even pose for a photo before we head out.

As we leave, I notice the worry in Grace's eyes. "Are they going to be okay?"

"For now," she says. "But Earl's medications are getting more expensive, and Martha's too proud to admit she can barely see anymore."

The pattern repeats at each stop: Grace delivering supplies, checking on specific needs, and promising follow-ups.

She knows everyone's medications, their grandchildren's names, and which houses need roof repairs before winter.

The town is a complex web of interconnected lives, and somehow Grace holds all the threads.

By our sixth delivery, I'm actually being useful, carrying the heavier boxes and even managing some small talk with the residents.

But I can't stop watching Grace. The way she listens intently to each person, how she adjusts her approach from house to house.

Businesslike with some, gentle with others, or firm when needed.

She catches me staring as we leave the Johnsons' place.

"You waiting for applause, rock star?" she asks, but there's less bite in it than before.

"Just trying to figure out how you keep this all going," I admit.

She studies me for a moment, as if checking for sarcasm. Finding none, she sighs. "Someone has to lead."

"And that someone is you."

"Not by choice," she says, sliding back into the driver's seat. "Just by necessity."

Our last stop is a small cottage on the outskirts of town. A woman with silver hair sits on the porch, knitting something blue.

"Grace, right on time," she calls. Then her eyes land on me and widen. "Well, I'll be. Little Blake Nelson."

I step closer, confused. "I'm sorry. Have we met?"

"You don't remember Violet Mason?" Grace asks, surprised.

The name triggers a distant memory. "Miss Violet? Ruby's friend?"

The woman beams. "The very same. You used to run wild with those Nelson kids in the summer. Always climbing my apple trees."

Memories flood back. Summer visits with Orville, skinned knees, and stolen fruit. "You used to make those apple hand pies."

"Still do," she says with a wink. "Your grandfather was mighty proud of you, you know. Always talking about his musician grandson."

Something in my chest tightens. "He never told me that."

"Men of his generation weren't big on saying things out loud." She reaches for my hand. "You had a good heart then."

Had. Past tense. The word lands like a punch.

"Let me help with those boxes, Miss Violet," I say, needing to move.

Inside, while Grace checks Miss Violet's blood pressure, I notice the photos on her mantel, including one of my grandparents with a much younger Violet.

"They were good people," Miss Violet says, catching me looking. "I bet Ruby is happy you're back, helping out."

"I'm just passing through," I correct automatically.

"Mmm," she hums, unconvinced. "Well, while you're passing through, would you mind taking a look at my porch step? It's got a wobble that's going to send me sprawling one of these days."

Twenty minutes later, I've fixed the step and accepted a still-warm apple hand pie as payment. The taste is exactly as I remember--tart and sweet and somehow like childhood itself.

Grace is quiet as we drive back to town, the day's light fading into dusk.

"Thanks," she finally says. "Having an extra pair of hands made a difference today."

"I'm shocked. An actual compliment."

"Don't get used to it." But there's that hint of a smile again.

We pull up to the Merc, and I find myself reluctant to end the day. As Grace starts unloading the empty containers, I notice the truck's taillight is cracked and held together with tape.

"Your left taillight's about to give out," I point out. "And that tape job won't pass inspection."

"Add it to the list of things that need fixing," she sighs.

"I could take a look at it," I offer, surprising myself. "I know my way around engines. Tour buses break down in the middle of nowhere more often than you'd think."

Grace studies me, suspicious of this voluntary offer. "Why would you bother?"

"Consider it payment for the tour of Mustang Mountain's shut-ins."

She hesitates, then nods. "If you're serious about helping, show up tomorrow. On time."

"I make no promises about the 'on time' part," I say, "but I'll be here."

On my way back to Shane's place, I realize something strange. For the first time since I got here, I wasn't thinking about when I could leave. I was thinking about when I could see her again.