It is Saturday. It is noon. I am still in my pajamas, I have a glass of wine in my hand, and I am about to start The Fireman by Joe Hill.
And before anybody starts judging the wine-at-noon situation, I have receipts.
I have been productive as hell today.
I reorganized the wall hangings in the house, including creating something that mattered much more to me than simply making a wall look nice: I made a permanent place for Blitz.
Her things have been finding their places slowly. Some of that process hurts like hell, and some of it feels comforting. Today I made a space where candles can burn for her every night—a little place in our home that says, You still belong here.
Because she does.
I also chose no fewer than sixty photos of Blitz to have printed. Sixty. Apparently sixteen years cannot be reasonably condensed into twelve pictures, and frankly I don’t know who would expect me to try. Those photos will go into a little album that will live inside the drawer of her shadow box, where I can pull them out whenever I want and remember sixty tiny pieces of an enormous life.
That alone was emotionally exhausting enough to justify the wine.
But oh no. I did actual chores too.
I cleaned the litter boxes. Did laundry. Cleaned the kitchen. Mopped the kitchen. Mopped my bathroom. Vacuumed the entire house.
Then I put a roast in the slow cooker for my family with potatoes, carrots, onion, homegrown spices and—as required by all proper slow-cooker recipes—a generous helping of love.
So dinner is handled. The house is clean. The animals have sanitary bathroom facilities. Blitz has a beautiful permanent place of honor.
Did I get dressed?
Absolutely the fuck not.
Did I get the potting soil I need for the cat grass and catnip?
Also no.
That particular mission was thwarted by the construction crew currently working on somebody’s house nearby, who have apparently decided that the area in front of my yard and driveway is their own personal parking annex.
Getting my gigantic truck out of my driveway has become a fucking labyrinth.
And one of these men, who regularly helps guide me through the ridiculous obstacle course they’ve created, has developed a fondness for telling me:
“That’s an awful big truck for such a little lady.”
Sir.
I would like to throat punch you.
Unfortunately, I also need you to stand back there waving your arms so I don’t sideswipe something while attempting to escape my own property.
So today, I chose peace.
I did not become a Karen. I did not march myself to the HOA. I did not throat punch anyone.
Honestly, that may be today’s greatest accomplishment.
The potting soil can wait. Marcelo can drive me to Home Depot tomorrow, and somebody else can deal with the vehicular escape room.
Because my Saturday responsibilities are officially over.
Yesterday, I finished Black House, which leaves me in the horrible little literary wasteland between Stephen King books because Other Worlds Than These isn’t coming until October.
Fortunately, there is another Hill I can climb.
Joe Hill.
I’ve always respected that he built his career under Hill instead of King. Being Stephen King’s son could easily have become the first sentence of every conversation about his work. Instead, Joe Hill built his own voice, his own stories, his own particular brand of strange—and proved quite thoroughly that talent apparently runs rampant in that family.
He doesn’t write exactly like his father, either.
That’s what I love about him.
You can sometimes feel a little familiar DNA in there, but Hill has his own style to flex, his own darkness, his own imagination, and his own way of making me happily disappear into several hundred pages of terrible things happening to people.
Bless this family.
So today’s selection is The Fireman.
And since I’m going into this one almost completely blind, I’m keeping it that way. The spoiler-free version is basically this: a terrifying pandemic called Dragonscale causes infected people to develop strange marks across their bodies—and eventually spontaneously combust. Against that apocalyptic backdrop, the story follows a pregnant nurse trying to survive after becoming infected herself, and a mysterious man known as the Fireman who may understand the disease better than most.
That is quite enough information for me.
My house smells like roast. My chores are finished. Blitz’s corner is where it belongs. Sixty photographs of my girl are waiting to become another little piece of her memorial. My pajamas remain firmly on my body. Nobody has been throat punched.
And there is wine in my glass and a brand-new Joe Hill story waiting on my wonderfully sticker-covered reading stand.
I’d say I’ve earned this.
Actually, fuck that.
I know I have.
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