Page 1 of Before the Fire
Part One: Unprotected
Chapter 1: Avi
Seven missed calls.
I don't see them right away. I'm standing on the trail along the Schuylkill with my hands on my knees, breathing hard, watching the river move south through the morning haze. Late June in Philadelphia means the air is already thick by seven a.m., and the run was longer than I planned. Past the Strawberry Mansion Bridge and back, which is what happens when I forget to turn around. My legs feel good. My lungs feel full. And my body reminds me it’s still working, but thirty-four doesn’t feel the same as twenty-four.
I pull my phone from the armband and switch off airplane mode.
Seven missed calls. Four from Laura. Three from a number I don't recognize but have saved in my contacts. Brian Sullivan, The Inquirer. And texts. A wall of texts, the previews stacking before I can read any of them.
Laura first, time-stamped starting forty minutes ago:
Call me.
Five minutes later:
Avi, call me before you talk to anyone.Then:Pick up the phone.
One text, twelve minutes ago:
Hey Avi, Brian Sullivan. Working on a piece, hoping to get a comment. Going to try you.
My phone rings in my hand.
Sullivan.
I answer because I don't know yet. That's the part I'll think about later. I answer because I don't know, and in two minutes I'll never not know again.
"Avi, hey. Brian Sullivan, Inquirer. Thanks for picking up." His voice has that careful, slightly hurried warmth that reporters use when they're on deadline and need you to feel comfortable fast. "I know this is probably a tough morning. I'm putting together a piece on the Atlanta expansion draft and wanted to see if you had any comment on Philadelphia's decision to leave you unprotected."
The river is still moving.
"Avi? You there?"
I watch a sculling crew cut through the water in perfect synchronization, eight oars breaking the surface at the same angle. Precise. Mechanical. The sound carries. A rhythmic thud of oars locking, then the glide.
"I'm here."
"Like I said, I know it's a lot. If you want to call me back later, that's —"
"They left me unprotected."
A pause. Then Sullivan's voice changes, dropping the professional polish. "Shit. Avi, did you…they didn't call you?"
"No."
He swears again, quieter this time, and for a moment he's not a reporter. He's a guy from the press box who's asked me about my father's career at All-Star weekends, who knows I take my coffee black, who once sat next to me on a delayed team flight and talked about his daughter's figure skating. Then I hear him exhale and he's back.
"Listen, I'm sorry. I am. I'll give you time. Call me when you're ready, no rush. But the list goes public at noon, and I'd rather have your words than speculation." He pauses. "For what it's worth, everyone I've talked to in the building is surprised. This wasn't the consensus pick."
I say something. I don't remember what. Something short and professional that closes the conversation without giving him anything, because that's what twelve years in this league teaches you. You learn to make sounds that function as a sentence while your brain is somewhere else.
My phone buzzes before I've lowered it from my ear. Laura.
I stand on the trail for another thirty seconds. Cyclists pass. A woman with a jogging stroller. The sculling crew is almost out of sight now, moving together in that perfect, mechanical rhythm, every body doing exactly what it trained to do.
I pick up.
