The Distant Hills and Other Stories by Kaje Harper

Author:Kaje Harper
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kaje Harper

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Treehouse Sanctuary

A group member wanted a story with a treehouse in it, and I do love writing men who care about kids. So this happened.

* Content warning for anxiety and difficult family.

* * * * *

I yanked the battery out of the third smoke alarm and collapsed on the floor of the hallway. I could barely smell the burned food here. Why the fuck had this alarm gone off too… I guess I should be glad it was so sensitive, outside the kids’ rooms, right?

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out— a guy with three small children never ignores his phone— and groaned. The alarm company. Because of course the wired alarm had been triggered too.

My voice stayed impressively steady as I answered. “No, it was just a cooking mishap. Don’t send anyone… Code…” What’s the fucking code? This wasn’t my first time, though. Cooking for the family had been a learning experience. I have it on my phone. “Hang on.” I scrolled through my contacts, and read out the six letters.

The technician’s perky, “Thank you, sir, and do remember to be sure any cooking fire is completely out. They can be deceptive,” rasped over my last nerve, but I said I would and hung up.

Rob will be home in ten minutes. I’d timed the salmon to be ready to go on the table when he arrived… if the “Bake” setting and the “Clean” setting weren’t right next to each other on the old oven’s knob, and if I wasn’t the worst klutz to ever walk on two legs. That salmon had blown the week’s grocery budget out of the water, but I knew it was his favorite meal. Expensive, luscious fish that had heated past caramelized all the way to lump of coal in less than ten minutes on the cleaning cycle.

I forced myself to my feet. This was no time for self-indulgence. I needed to air out the kitchen, and then come up with something else for dinner, and get the carbonized-fish smell out of my clothes, or our anniversary celebration with the kids safely at their grandmother’s would be… would be… I reached the kitchen where the dish of reeking charcoal sat on top of the stove. The air clogged my throat, thick and nasty.

And I ran.

Did pause to grab that dish, remembering just in time to use a potholder so a trip to the ER didn’t add the crowning touch to this clusterfuck. Yanked open the door, managed not to trip on the wooden steps. I abandoned the remnants on the ground at the bottom of the deck, so at least the smell was out of the kitchen, and kept going. I wanted to hide, needed to. Breathing hard, I glanced around our backyard.

The kids loved our yard— lots of smooth grass, a couple of great trees, a swingset, but nowhere secluded. Nowhere I could hide. Except the treehouse Rob had built for them, the work of almost a month of evenings and weekends.

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