Page 2 of Iron Heart

“Hello, Tori, dear,” comes her worried voice through the speaker. “I just wanted to call and check up that you’re all right.”

“I’m fine,” I assure her. “Just like I told you when I texted you last night after I got home.”

“Well, I just wanted to make sure. You’re taking today off to rest, right?”

“Just the morning,” I correct her. “I have to go cover a story this afternoon.”

“Don’t tax yourself, Tori,” she frets.

I suck in a breath, slowly, and then let it out in silence, willing my irritation not to show in my voice. I can’t really blame my mother for her concern. But even though she means well, the degree to which she worries about me getting stressed is…

Well, stressful.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine, Mom. I promise. I had a good night’s sleep, I feel good. Everything’s okay. Okay?”

“Well, all right,” my mom breathes. “I don’t suppose yourfatherbothered to check up that you got home safely,” she adds, a familiar contemptuous tone creeping into her voice.

Oh, boy.

“Actually, Dad asked me to text him last night when I got back to Ironwood,” I say carefully. “So he knows I’m okay, too.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good,” Mom sniffs, sounding disappointed.

“Okay. So we’re done worrying, right?” I don’t wait for her to respond. “Look, I’m gonna let you go, so I can grab some breakfast. Talk to you later. Love you!”

“Love you, too!” she chimes back, cheerful but forced.

The relief I feel when I press the button to hang up is palpable. This scenario plays out every time I go back home for a visit. I spend the whole weekend juggling my time between my two divorced parents. Then when I leave to come back home, we have to play thewhich parent worries more about Torigame. It gets really old, really fast. If I didn’t know they actually had a valid reason to be worried about me, I probably would have figured out a way to put a stop to it a long time ago.

Sighing, I set the phone down and finish up prepping the coffee. Shoving some bread into the toaster to go with it, I sit down to thumb through my favorite news sites as I wait for them both to be done.

I flick through the international news section of one paper, my eyes darting to different stories about conflicts throughout the world. Most people look at these stories and see things their instinct is to turn away from. I, on the other hand, see them as missed opportunities. I itch to be there, to be the one covering the story myself.

I notice that one article, about something happening in Libya, has a female byline. My stomach clenches.

That could have been me. I could have written that story.

I wonder if there’s any chance the journalist who wrote that story wishes she was in my place as much as I wish I was in hers. Living in a small town in southern Ohio. About to cover a story on Jesus appearing in someone’s lawn.

Doubtful.

I’m not sure how long I spend staring at my phone, daydreaming of another life. But eventually I’m pulled out of my thoughts by the aroma of coffee.

There’s another smell blending in with it, too. But strangely, it’s not the smell of toast.

Frowning, I look up from my screen at the kitchen counter. The auto drip maker is making its final spurting noises, indicating the coffee’s almost done.

The toaster, on the other hand, is sort of…

Smoking?

2

Tori

“Shit!” I screech, leaping up from the kitchen table so quickly my phone clatters to the ground. Ignoring it, I run over to the counter, where I now realize the odor I smelled isburning. But not burning bread; more like burning plastic. The bread bag is nowhere near the toaster, so it can’t be that. I reach to flip the toaster lever up manually, but then I realize it’s not the toast that’s burning, it’s the cord. My hand darts to it on instinct, yanking it out of the socket before my mind can register that maybe that’s a dumb thing to do. As the prongs leave the outlet, sparks fly out behind them.

“Jesus!” I cry, hopping back in fear. Panicking a little, my first thought is to turn off the power, though I’m a little afraid to leave the kitchen in case a fire starts. I bolt downstairs to the fuse box as fast as I can, hoping I can see what to do. When I get down there, I grab the flashlight I keep next to it and shine it on the box, looking for the master switch. I see immediately that one of the fuses is has blown, the interior black and fogged. It must be the one connected to the toaster.

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