AFTER WATCHING CLYDE ON THE DECK, I DECIDE TO RESTART my day.

    I shower, hoping the water will wash away the mental image of him on my patio. Even after a full night’s sleep, my body still feels sore, and a dull ache still thrums at my temples.

    Under the hot spray, I mull over Gwen’s words and consider whether these symptoms could stem from my mental health rather than simply being run-down.

    In the privacy of the shower, it feels easier to confess that I’m not at my healthiest, but perhaps not only in a physical way.

    As I dress and prepare to head back downstairs, I take a step back mentally and examine myself as if I were an outside spectator. I think about all my years as a wilnd firefighter, all the things I’ve seen, all the men and women I’ve worked alongside.

    I think about how I would react to seeing one of my coworkers feeling the way I do now.

    The term “upational burnout” pops up in my brain. I’ve seen it firsthand—watched friends and coworkers struggle with it, manage it, sumb to it, and beat it. And I wonder if that’s what I’m up against.

    For years, this job has consumed me. I started at the bottom,pleted grueling hours of in-flight training, and wed my way up to be an aerial firefighter. It’s been all work and no y, and maybe it’s made me a bit of a dull boy.

    I’ve been relentless in my pursuit of this job, and I’ve never considered taking a break. Hell, I barely even take vacations.

    I pause as I pull my socks on, realizing that’s not exactly true. In a sense, I have taken a break. I used to spend my winters fighting fires in other parts of the world. Spring, fall, winter elsewhere—often Australia—and returning home to Canada, or down south in the States, for the summer. Fighting fires year-round.

    It wasn’t until thest couple of years that I finally stepped back to spend the winter working quietly on small contracting jobs in the valley. A gig that gives me a brief break from the death and destruction of natural disasters.

    For the longest time, I thought that work was all I had, but now I’m faced with the realization that maybe that’s not the case anymore.

    I’m terrible at asking for help, butst night, I tried to. And Gwen just knew.

    Coming home feeling so downtrodden and depleted scared me. It may even be the wake-up call I needed. I fucking hate asking for help, but I’m too old to ignore when I need it.

    So I begrudgingly promise myself I’m going to phone our professional firefighters’ association and see if there’s anyone I can talk to.

    But first, food. I’m starving. I didn’t eat properly while I was away either. I didn’t take care of myself at all.

    When I get downstairs, I’m met with the chatter andughter I expected when I first got up this morning. The past several weeks before I left, I avoided joining them, but today I want to.

    Gwen and Clyde are both in the kitchen, having a lively conversation with each other. And as I watch Clyde pull a bag of celery from the fridge, moving aroundfortably, I can’t help but wonder if getting a little sun on his taint really did make him feel better. The improvement, even just in the days I was away, has been exceptional.

    “What are we making?” I ask, as I stride into the kitchen.

    Gwen turns to face me, knife in her hand, bits of raw chicken dangling from the end. If she looks surprised by my presence, she doesn’t show it. “You,” she says, “are not making anything. You are going to sit at that counter and rx. Andter, you are going to take a nap.”

    I quirk a brow at her. “I haven’t taken a nap after a full night’s sleep in years. I’m not a small child.”

    Gwen doesn’t bother staring me down—she just goes back to dicing chicken breasts. “Well, if you can’t take care of yourself, then I will have to treat you like a small child. And that means you’re taking a nap. Your body needs it.”

    Clyde watches us with narrowed eyes, gaze flicking back and forth between Gwen and me. “Why is she telling you to rx? I mean, we all know you need to rx. You’re wound as tight as a fishing reel. But since when do you listen to what she says?”

    I drop onto a stool at the counter and look at Clyde. As irritating as he sometimes is, I have to confess that he’s one of my closest friends. So I try something new. I try not to bottle it all up. “Since I overdid it and made myself sick. I’ve been a little tightly wound, and I think it caught up with me.”

    Clyde scoffs, grabbing a knife for the celery. “You think?”

    I roll my eyes. “Just being open about it, Clyde. Not all of us reap the rewards of putting our perineum in the sun.”

    He snorts now, grinning down at the celery he’s chopping. “I would tell you to try it, except you wouldn’t listen to me. You’re not enlightened enough.”

    I shake my head, wondering how the fuck I got to a ce where I’m talking about my feelings with the town conspiracy theorist and the girl I got drunk in an airport with.

    “But I’ll tell you what would be good for you,” Clyde starts back in. “Pot.”

    I go still, head tilting as I stare back at him. “Pot?”

    He dips his chin. “Yeah. You know… marijuana. Ganja. Dope. Grass. Reefer. Mary Jane. I don’t know what you kids are calling it these days, but it might serve you well. It’s medicinal.”

    Gwen snorts augh and covers her mouth with the back of her hand.

    “What are youughing at?” I ask her.

    Wide eyes dart up to mine. “Mary Jane. I haven’t heard that one in a long time.” She can barely get the words out without bursting into a fit of giggles.

    All I can do is blink at her.

    Clyde turns now, facing Gwen. “You know I’m right, though. It would be good for him.”

    She rolls her lips together, head tilting from side to side as she considers. All the while avoiding eye contact with me. Finally, she shrugs. “Yeah, probably.”

    “Aha!” Clyde’s hand shoots up in the air, and he stabs toward the ceiling with one of my sharper kitchen knives. “I’m right!” He points the knife my way. “You, my friend, just need to blow a spliff, have a nap, and consider getting a little sun on your perineum.”

    “Clyde, I will never put sun on my perineum.”

    All I get for that is an eye roll. But then the man pauses. “Does that mean you’ll blow a jay with me?”

    I can’t remember thest time I smoked pot. Sure, it’s legal. Sure, I understand the medicinal benefits. It’s just something I’ve never reached for. And I’m not sure it’s something Clyde should be reaching for either. “Clyde, I don’t even know if you are medically cleared to be smoking pot.”

    He waves me off like I’m the unreasonable one in this situation. I suppose I don’t have a leg to stand on when ites to being cleared for something.

    “Nah. Grew these nts myself. In fact, while you were away, Gwen and I took a trip up to my ce just to check on everything. Grabbed a little bit. Said hi to my Maya.”

    My brows furrow. “What’s my Maya?”

    Gwen’s head snaps up, her features taking on a sad expression that has me looking between the two of them. Obviously, she knows something I don’t.

    “My wife,” he says inly, like this isn’t the first time I’m hearing about her. “Got all her pictures up at my ce. You’ve never noticed them?”

    I blink at him. No, I hadn’t noticed them. I don’t think I’ve ever taken a close look at anything in Clyde’s house beyond what was necessary. “I’m sorry, Clyde. I don’t think I ever paid close enough attention. Next time we’re there, you could show me?” I say, trying to smooth over the lump of guilt in my gut.

    “It was a long time ago. She’s been gone for forty-odd years now.” My throat feels thick as I watch him speak about the wife I never knew he had. “Blood clot got her. She passed peacefully. Though I’ll never get over taking her to the hospital and being told it was a migraine. Got sent home that night. She died in her sleep. So anyway, enjoy your life while you’ve got it. That’s what I say. Tomorrow is never promised.”

    He says it like it’s not one of the saddest stories I’ve heard. Like it wasn’t wholly unnecessary.

    And suddenly, little bits of Clyde’s personality slip into ce for me. His mistrust of the medical system. His belief in so many zany things. Why wouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t he? An event like that would have a profound effect on a person.

    It makes me feel bad that he hasn’t felt like he could tell me. It makes me question what type of friend I’ve been to him. I unload all my drama on him, but do I ever stop to listen?

    “You could bring the pictures here if you wanted,” I say, hoping to make this better. “You don’t have to leave just to see your things, Clyde.”

    I want him to feel at home here. What felt like an intrusion before now feels like me just being a reclusive asshole.

    Have I been forcing them to walk on eggshells around me?

    “Nah, Maya wouldn’t like it here. Her pictures belong there, in our house. We were happy there together, you know. Still one of my favorite ces in the world to be. Nobody grew marijuana like my Maya. In fact, I still have some of her strains going to this day. That’s how we made all our money, but we still just loved our quiet cottage. Got emergency cash buried in different spots around the property. For safety.”

    Of course he has cash buried on his property.

    My eyes flit between Gwen and Clyde as I take in all of this new information—the unexpected pieces of his life and the strange way we’re reminiscing about the way he and histe wife used to grow marijuana illegally.

    Deciding this has the potential to be a somewhat wholesome moment, I tap a palm against the ind’s countertop and announce, “You know what, Clyde? I would love to smoke some of Maya’s Mary Jane with you.”

    At that, Gwen bursts outughing before dropping a handful of chicken into a sizzling pot. “Yeah, Clyde,” she adds. “I too would like to smoke some of Maya’s Mary Jane. Let’s get this soup ready, then we can all go sit outside and enjoy it together.”

    The man brightens, standing up taller, his eyes sparkling. “Really? You two would do that with me?”

    “Hell yeah,” Gwen says as I give him a solemn nod. “You can tell us more about Maya.”

    Clyde smiles—a rare, genuine smile. Not a smirk, not a mischievous grin, but the kind of smile that speaks to a bone-deep happiness. It’s a smile I don’t wear often. But, in this moment, it might be reflected on my face too.

    I watch as they finish making lunch, chattering away about which ingredients to add to the chicken noodle soup and which ones they should leave out. Clyde approves of Gwen’s homemade bone broth but scowls at adding more vegetables. Gwen firmly but gently overrides him at every turn, exining that if vitamin D is good for his taint, then vegetables are also good for his immune system.

    He grumbles, but he doesn’tin. And soon, a warm, rich-smelling soup is bubbling on the stove.

    The three of us head outside, the sun heating the front porch head-on this time of day. It’s protected from the breeze, which makes it feel more like summer. Light sparkles on the water and that smell of pine trees that I love so much floats in the air.

    I take a few deep breaths, chasing that scent and the feeling of solitude that I associate with it. Before long, the scent of marijuana masks the smell of pine.

    I nce at Clyde, who is seated in the Adirondack chair right next to me with his signature cap pulled low to keep the sun off his face, Gwen just on the other side of him. He has a thinly rolled joint pressed to his lips at the tip and pinched between his thumb and forefinger in the middle. He sucks in deeply, and I watch his eyes flutter shut as the smoke billows from his nostrils.

    He hands it to Gwen, and she follows suit, a puff of smoke spilling from her lips as she rxes back into the chair. The way her back arches and the sound she makes is a straight shot to my dick. She’s sensual without even trying.

    And sitting here has my brain flooding with memories of pressing her against that railing. My lips on hers. Her hands in my hair.

    I wish I hadn’t stopped.

    “You weren’t lying, Clyde. Maya was a talented woman,” Gwen announces while I try to will my boner away.

    He chuckles. “That she was.”

    Gwen holds the reefer out in my direction, and I reach across Clyde to take it from her. I turn it over in my hand, eyeing it with hesitation.

    Truth be told, I’ve always been a straiced kind of guy, and I’m out of my element. Still, I watched the other two enough to mimic their motions.

    I lift the joint and take a deep inhale.

    Secondster, I’m coughing, and they’reughing. And not long after that, I’mughing too.

    Clyde sighs. “Maya would have gotten a real kick out of this, watching someone so tightly wound talk about his feelings and smoke her nt. It would have made her happy.”

    “I live to serve,” I joke, taking another puff—this time without coughing.

    “Hell, maybe after a few more hits, you’ll be out there sunning your—”

    “Clyde, don’t even go there. Maya sounds lovely, but there’s going to be no sunning of anything.”

    “What about sunning your face?” Gwen suggests. “Just kick back and rx. You can absorb vitamin D through any part of your skin. And vitamin D is hugely beneficial for low mood and a stressed immune system.”

    Clyde grumbles about absorption rates, and it makes meugh. My shoulders shake with it.

    I take another puff, and my body rxes. In fact, muscles let go that haven’t softened in years.

    And so goes the next hour. We share the small joint, and while Clyde stays covered, I slouch back in the sun, letting its rays warm me from the outside in. I absorb my vitamin D appropriately.

    Eyes fluttered shut, head swimming, body floating, I let myself enjoy the moment with two people who have be the most unexpected type of friends.

    Eventually, our conversation turns to peppering Clyde with whether or not he believes certain conspiracy theories.

    “Hey, Clyde, was Elvis Presley’s death faked?”

    “Hey, Clyde, was the moonnding faked by the government?”

    “Hey, Clyde, did they add fluoride to water sources just to make people sickly?”

    “Hey, Clyde, is the earth t or round?”

    “Hey, Clyde, who built the pyramids, Egyptians or aliens?”

    To that one he says, “Of course the Egyptians built the pyramids, but aliensmissioned them.”

    Needless to say, the further along we go and the higher we get, the more weugh.

    Iugh until my cheeks hurt. Iugh until my throat feels hoarse. Iugh until my stomach cramps.

    I have fun.

    And god, it’s one of the best afternoons of my life.