Breakers

A crack in the ozone layer sparks the fire in the back of Mara's throat. The air hangs heavy— wet heat that scorches anyway. And that coughing sensation is how Mara remembered meeting him.

"This stupid thing," Mara muttered, dragging the box fan out of the garage. "You owe me a goddamn carton of cigarettes for towing this thing," she muttered into the phone.

She balanced her iphone between her shoulder and cheek, needing both hands to pull the clunky fan. Her camel linen shirt kept wrinkling where her skin leaked through, like a dripping faucet against the thick humidity.

"Just get someone to look at the fuse box," her sister Terry said calmly on the other end. "It's not a character flaw to call an electrician. There's a list in the kitchen."

Mara hissed through her teeth, pivoting the fan toward the porch. "I'm not helpless, Terry."

And as she said it, the cord caught on something. She tumbled backward, nearly slamming headfirst into the side door of her Corolla—landing in a heap on the garage's cement floor.

That's when she heard the cough.

At first, she thought it came from her own throat, wet and sunburned from the inside out. But no.

Just past the picket fence, he stood there.

Arms crossed. The white undershirt is stained yellow at the pits. Holding a plastic jug like he'd walked out of a Home Depot ad that never aired.

"Afternoon, ma'am," he said, as if he'd been waiting for her to fall.

Mara gave a tight-lipped smile. "Hi."

"Terry? I'll have to call you back," she called out to her phone, stooping to retrieve it from the pavement.

"Call the electric—!" her sister's voice crackled and cut off as Mara hung up.

"Hot, ain't it?" he said, not waiting for a response.

"Yes."

"You renting or housesitting?"

She blinked. "Housesitting," she said, brushing dirt off herself. "My sister's."

"Figured. Wouldn't've left the side gate open if I knew you were coming."

Mara looked—sure enough, the old metal gate sagged off its hinge, swaying slightly with some invisible shift in the suffocating heat. A creak echoed from it a second later.

He stepped closer. "Name's Tom. I'm next door—the one with the red truck," he said, nodding toward the nearest plantation-style house.

"Nice to meet you, Tom." She shifted her weight, still half-seated on the curb. "Mara."

He nodded toward the porch. "You should get someone to check that breaker panel. These old places, they hum like that right before they fry something. Had a family down the block lose a toaster and half their kitchen last spring."

Mara gave him her best "I'm listening, but not taking notes" expression. "I'll keep that in mind."

"I know a guy, if you need one. Won't charge you contractor prices. Lives next to my uncle."

She managed a polite laugh. "Thanks, but my sister left me a list of people to call. She probably has someone."

"Cigarettes are a dirty habit," he added, abruptly, like he expected gratitude.

"Well, a dirtier one is getting mixed up in things you shouldn't be," she said, not missing a beat.

Tom nodded slowly, clearly filing that one away. "Suit yourself."

Still, he turned toward his yard. "You need anything, I'm around, Miss."

She watched him go. His boots left soft impressions in the dust along her walkway. The jug—weed killer?—slapped against his leg with every step.

Once he was out of sight, Mara kicked the fan into place and plugged it in. It whirred to life, louder than expected.

The fan blew hot air into her face like a dog panting.

Wait. Had she heard something?

Across the fence, just for a second, she thought she saw Tom—still as a tree—before he disappeared behind his shed. Then she blinked. Maybe the heat was playing tricks on her. Maybe not.

She walked back and latched the gate.

She glanced back toward the fence. No sign of him now. But she'd start double-checking locks anyway.

Tight.

Then she went searching the kitchen drawers for an unopened pack of Marlboros.

Relief was non-existent. The condensation glossed through her fingers as she took a swig of the sweet tea she made—she could hear Terry in the corner of her mind complaining how she never made it for her. Yet, it seemed like no matter how much she attempted to hydrate, any liquid would seep out of her pores.

She had her feet up on the wicker ottoman on the long porch out front. Inside, she'd been freezing—thanks to the only functioning window unit in the guest room—so she may as well suffer outside for a bit before crawling back into her self-made icebox.

How many more days could this heat last without one of her neighbors keeling over from heat stroke, she wondered? Of course, that's what happens when you land in a neighborhood ruled by people who remind you constantly that you're living on borrowed time. She'd somehow ended up the youngest person on the block—at forty-one.

Mara lit a cigarette. The flame from her Zippo lighter was limp in the humidity; she nearly scraped her thumb with a scar from trying to get it to catch so many times. Finally, the tip of the Marlboro caught, barely, and she inhaled deeply. At least she was nowhere near Seattle, back with all of her problems. She laid down her still-lit cigarette and flicked some of the ashes into her tray.

Perhaps once the heat is not nearly as oppressive, she can finally enjoy her summer the way it was meant to be. Without a pure scandal looming on her every whim.

She'll close her eyes for a minute. The sunshine was making her groggy, anyway.

"Afternoon, ma'am."

She squinted through one eye to see Tom standing on the sidewalk in front of the house.

She hadn't heard him.

"Hi," she said dryly. Had he not noticed her napping?

"Is that your attic fan causing all that racket?" he gruffed, gesturing towards the roofline.

Seriously? What is this? The unofficial neighborhood sound police?

"Are you listening to my house with headphones on now?"

"No," he said, dismissing her bite, "But I can hear it humming. I've been here a long time—are you sure you don't want me to come in and take a look?"

…He wants to come into her home? He must be joking.

"I know what's plugged in and I know what it sounds like," she said flatly.

"I'm just acknowledging Miss Mara that I know it's really hot out here in these parts. Fans, fridges, and ACs up to full blast—" he said with a slight twang.

"I know what's plugged in," she cut him off.

A pause.

"Alright," he said finally, "I get it. I'll mind my own. But maybe don't flick that cancer stick into the lawn. It'll catch. Don't say nobody warned you."

And with a huff, he finally started walking off.

Who does he think he is, trying to run this house like he owned the street?

Mara stood, grabbed her drink, and stepped back into the front hallway—just as a blast of cold air hit her full in the face.

Finally. Something that felt a little like home.

A few hours later, Mara flipped through channels, shoveling popcorn into her mouth, and debated whether to suffer through CSI: Miami for the fiftieth time. Outside, a dull, intermittent beeping had been going on for hours—so faint she kept thinking it was part of the show. Now it was drilling into her brain.

This so-called "reset" was turning into a joke. Same snacks. Same shows. Same bad sleep. Just a hotter zip code.

Then—shuffling. Slow. Deliberate.

What the—?

She muted the TV.

The AC upstairs groaned like it was dying. The hallway fan buzzed. Even the fridge sounded tired.

And beneath all that: footsteps.

Just outside the front door.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

Knuckles. Not angry—just tired.

She hesitated, then padded barefoot to the door and peered through the peephole.

Tom.

He stood on the porch with his shoulders slumped like the heat had gotten to him. In his hand was something small and square.

A 9-volt battery.

He raised it half-heartedly. Not a threat. Just a gesture.

"I can hear you," he said. "Might as well open up."

She cracked the door, chain still latched. He didn't look at her.

"Your hallway alarm's dead. I've been hearing it chirp for hours."

She stared.

He held up the battery. "Had an extra."

"My battery is fine."

And then she heard it—shrill and smug.

CHIRP.

Tom blinked...

"Miss Mara… you might want to get your hearing checked. No offense, but I should be hearing less than you."

"I couldn't hear it over the TV."

"Like how you also can't hear your AC begging to die?"

CHIRP.

She snatched the battery from his hand.

"Thanks," she said, sharp as a blade without waiting for him to leave.

CHIRP.

"Are you kidding me?!" she shrieked—half to the house, half to no one.

She yanked the stepstool from the pantry, stormed down the back hallway toward the incessant chirping, climbed up, and tore the smoke alarm from its mount with one furious hand.

"Happy now?" she snapped.

She'd fix it in the morning.

She walked back to the kitchen and cranked the AC, poured herself another glass of sweet tea, and sank into the couch with her crime show in the background.

Somewhere in the house, something buzzed, but Mara flipped the channel and let her eyes fall shut before the next commercial break.

Beads of sweat clung to her neck when she woke up. Again.

She rubbed her eyes on the couch—how long had she dozed off for?

At least the house was quiet this morning.

She peeked through the windows just enough to notice that the sun was not entirely overhead just yet.

"Beach day, if I ever saw one," she thought to herself.

She started moseying around the house, making breakfast and packing her favorite aquamarine towel for the ocean when--

She sniffed.

And again.

Did it smell like that yesterday when she arrived?

It wasn't strong. But… off.

Almost as if she had left the toast in the toaster for a moment too long.

She had to give herself another moment to sniff the air, though.

Shouldn't that be coming from the kitchen?

"It's probably nothing," Mara reassured herself.

So she grabbed her keys and swim bag, and then made her way downstairs.

Of course, the bastard is outside.

It looked like Tom was watering his plants out around back.

And to avoid the squeaking, she made a quick descision. She became the ultimate teenager and climbing over it. But if this meant she could get to the beach in peace? All the better.

Then she could escape.

Then she wouldn't need to think about Seattle. Or how her boss accused her of improper vendor relationships. Or how there may be no more jobs to come back to.

A couple of free dinners and a hotel room upgrade weren't a federal crime.

But this will all blow over.

It had to. But the beach was going to fix this.

Her summer wasn't over yet.

She made it to the Corolla without a single word from Tom. The bastard didn't even look up from his begonias.

Good.

She turned the key. The engine sputtered, then caught. Air conditioning wheezed weakly from the vents, but she didn't mind. It was still better than being stuck outside. So windows down it was going to be. Salt air would be coming to her soon.

Hours went by, and her skin began to blister enough at the shore that she felt it was time to turn back to the house. That sweet tea was calling her name, and that last Marlboro fell at the worst possible time.

With the windows down, she smelled something again.

It smelled acrid. Not like toast anymore. But of metal.

Then she saw a firetruck.

Then she saw two more.

Why was she following them essentially back to the house?

Caution tape.

People are all standing on the sidewalk.

No.

No.

No- this could not be happening!

She punched the breaks, slammed the door shut, and scrambled through the developing crowd of people down her street.

A female officer stepped out in front of her—

"Ma'am, unfortunately, I can't let you pass—"

"THAT'S MY SISTER'S HOUSE! I WAS JUST HERE THIS MORNING," she screamed, "What—what happened?!"

Then the officer glanced back at a stretcher being loaded into the ambulance with a yellow tarp covering the person's face.

"We're still working through it, but the gentleman tried to go back in."

"Wait… Which gentleman?"

"Older man? Someone down the street said that he tried to beat the door down when he saw smoke. It's believed he was the one to call 911. It's… assumed… at this point that he died trying to save someone inside.

She blinked.

The gate.

The gate was latched.

The fire alarm was down.

The breaker box that he warned her about.

… She went cold. The first time she had felt truly ice-cold outdoors since her arrival.

"Ma'am?"

"His name was Tom. He lived next door."

The officer gave her a look—gentle, but firm. "We'll have someone come over to speak to you momentarily, then to get a statement. When you're ready."

Mara barely nodded, eyes fixed on the smoldering roofline.

The windows were blackened now. Her sister's kitchen. The guest room. Gone.

Her sandals stuck to the asphalt.

She looked at the fence—the latch still shut tight, covered in ash.

Of course, he thought she was inside. Of course, he went in.

She pressed the back of her wrist to her mouth and tasted salt, but no tears came.

She stepped back, slow and numb, toward the sidewalk. The neighbors parted like a tide.

Someone muttered, "He was always watching that place."

She sat on the curb. Same spot where she met him.

She dug into her beach bag, fingers trembling, until they found what they were looking for: one last Marlboro. Slightly bent.

The lighter sparked on the first try.

She exhaled smoke into the rising heat, blinking up at the haze overhead—gray now, and thick.

A crack in the ozone, she'd said.

But this?

This was all hers.