That detail would stay with me later.
Because sometimes the worst moments of your life don’t announce themselves.
There is no warning.
No dramatic music.
No feeling in your stomach telling you to turn around.
Sometimes the last few minutes before everything changes feel completely ordinary.
I drove past the grocery store Tyler liked.
Past the gas station where he bought terrible coffee.
Past the intersection where we’d once been trapped behind a freight train for twenty minutes.
I pulled into the station parking lot.
I could already imagine his face.
I grabbed the cake.
I tied the balloons around my wrist.
And I walked inside.
The first firefighter who saw me froze.
I smiled.
“Hi.”
He didn’t answer.
His eyes moved from my face to the balloons.
Then toward the back of the station.
Another firefighter looked up.
Then another.
Nobody smiled.
Nobody joked.
Nobody said happy birthday.
My smile slowly disappeared.
I stood there, suddenly unsure whether I’d walked into the wrong building.
The station was strangely quiet.
No television.
No laughter.
No shouting from the kitchen.
Even the usual smell of coffee seemed absent.
“Hey,” I said softly.
Nothing.
I looked around.
“Is Tyler here?”
A firefighter named Grant opened his mouth.
