A sledgehammer banged and slammed about in Haustin's head, leaving him with a bitch of a headache. His eyes were gritty as if coated in sand, and a black, stormy cloud nipped at his heels. After his damn crying jag, which he was trying very hard to forget, he'd driven through the city in a daze. Not the best idea, but what part of anything he'd done in the last twenty-four hours had been bright?

As night fell, the urge to make things right with Yael, or try to, took root. She deserved an explanation. Only, he didn't know what reason to give her. The idea of standing in front of her and showing her his vulnerability terrified him to the very core. He wanted to be the strong one and be there for her, not the other way around.

Unconsciously, he found himself parked across the street from Ground Zero.

The Freedom Tower was well on its way into the skyline. The weird glass structure, which would house the memorial museum, reflected the lights of the city. Even the footprints of the twin towers, hollowed into the ground, were unrecognizable. The city was turning them into a fountain with the names of the victims etched into the walls. Ridiculous. As if anyone in this country needed a reminder.

So many times, Haustin had wound up here, sitting and staring, but once they finished with the recovery, he had never gone inside or set foot off the nearest sidewalk. He wondered how it would feel to stand in the place where he'd seen the first body fall or where he exited the tower before the collapse, the places they dug four stories down in an attempt to find someone—anyone.

If Haustin tilted his head and peered at the space in a particular light, he saw smoke billowing up from the pile's sun streaming through the leftover pieces of the towers' steel façade, the giant American flag billowing on the side of the Brooks Brothers building.

He remembered the pain in his back and the sweat on his tongue, dirt in his teeth as they dug, day after day, bucket after bucket. Fires burned for weeks, deep inside, where the water didn't reach. The chemicals in the air burned his skin, his lungs, but he hadn't worried about toxins; there wasn't time. Then, there were the haunting silences that fell whenever a body was found, or often only a piece of a body—thousands of them. Feet still inside shoes. Limbs. Torsos. A finger boasting an unblemished diamond ring.

They treated each corpse as if it was special cargo, placed on a stretcher and draped in an American flag. When only a piece was found, someone had the idea to arrange debris around it, so the shape under the flag at least resembled a body. Those watching shouldn't have to witness how little they actually recovered.

Haustin climbed from his truck, body stiff and drained, feeling older than his years, and walked the block to Liberty Street, to the firehouse for Engine and Ladder 10, or Ten House as it was known throughout the department.

The small brick building that sat across from the Trade Center had become a sort of Mecca for firefighters. Initially buried under forty feet of debris, the shell was eventually turned into a staging area, a place for recovery workers to rest after a long day. It had taken a little over two years to be rebuilt and reopened, but it turned into much more than a simple firehouse.

It was a place to honor and reflect.

A bronze sculpture lined the outside wall, illuminated by spotlights, one of the only memorials to date for the firemen lost on 9/11. He'd never seen it, except for pictures, not even all those times he came and stood for long hours staring across the street.

Lowering his defenses as much as he could, Haustin gave his full attention to the memorial, letting it penetrate him. The carving was captivating; smoke billowed from the towers, the rest of the city skyline behind it, the lifelike depictions of the firefighters themselves marching into the buildings. The color, an orange-ish copper, reflected the spotlights, reminding him of flames. Then, of course, there were the words.

"Dedicated to those who fell and to those who carry on. May we never forget," he whispered.

He lifted his hand and brushed his fingertips across the surface, wishing he could reach in and allow the past to swallow him, to save him from his misery. Unable to let his gaze stray to the names of the 343, he studied the picture, searching for anything to be critical of, but he found nothing.

Making sure he was alone, he laid his forehead to the cool metal. He knew what he had to do, and once again, his eyes welled. Drawing in a shuddering breath, feeling as if filled with razors, he laid his heart out right there on the sidewalk. The guilt tried to claw at him, yet again, but he wrestled it down and locked it away. No better time than the present, in this sacred place, to exorcise his demons.

"My name is not on this wall, but it should be. I am a ghost. A monster. Trying to destroy myself because I lived and thousands didn't. I know quite a few of you who'd jump out and kick my ass for not accepting the gifts I still have; family, a woman I want to love, the job, hell, even the air in my lungs. I'm finally beginning to realize what I've done to myself and everyone around me, letting the nightmares rule me and hold me back. But if I let go," he choked on a sob, "I feel like I am forgetting."

Haustin paused and wiped his eyes.

"I am sick of feeling this way," he pounded the wall with his fist. "I should have run back into those towers. I had my save and was ready to go again, but then I saw her. Standing there, calm as the world fell apart around her. The only thing I could do was run to her. Now, it's me who needs to be rescued. If I choose sobriety and serenity, I'll lose all of you, and I've carried each of you on my shoulders for nine years."

A fresh breeze hit him, filling him with hope, and he couldn't tell if it was real or imagined. Saying the words aloud had cleansed him, and a light, very dim and distant, flared to life. He still hurt, deeply, but he was confident he'd made the right decision to come here, however unconscious it'd been.

"I will never forget. The ash from those damn towers runs in my veins. The images are seared on my brain. I promise to think of the future and not waste this precious gift I have, and you guys don't. I have to get clean and beat the rage fighting to eat me alive. I need help."

Haustin was no fool. He knew it wasn't as simple as talking to a wall, but the act gave him clarity. Never before had he come close to uttering these words and giving voice to the suffering he battled. It wasn't lost on him that he'd had to return to where his trauma began, to lay it all at the feet of those who perished.

"I will never forget," he repeated in a passionate whisper, laying his palm reverently on the sculpture.

He walked away without looking back, exhaustion trailing behind him like a cloak. Now he had to figure out the next step. Words were powerful, and yet the simplicity of it intimidated him. Already he sensed something inside him had changed but was it as easy as confessing on hallowed ground? The rage had diminished and, though he was far from feeling healed, redemption felt like it was within reach. Now was the time to act.

Turning the corner, Haustin came face to face with a firefighter he knew from Ten House standing on the sidewalk smoking a cigarette. Robert Lemore, Jr., or Junior to anyone who knew him, had been part of Ladder 10 for years, able to scramble up the rungs as nimble as a monkey. Haustin couldn't remember the last time they'd crossed paths.

"Haus?" Junior's eyes widened in shock. "What the heck you doing in this part of town so late?"

He shook Haustin's hand and smacked him on the arm. Junior was a big guy, six-five with a shock of red hair, and the friendly blow about knocked Haustin off his unsteady feet.

"Came to see the memorial. I haven't yet. Figured it was time."

Junior nodded knowingly. "Still having nightmares?"

Haustin blinked, searching for a response, and blurted the truth. "Waking and sleeping." The man must have recognized the demons in his expression because his face softened, making Haustin curious. "You?"

"Less now. It's been hard working right across the street all this time. Kind of preferred those two years the house was being rebuilt when we were scattered across the city. It was weird coming back. Few of the guys transferred since they couldn't take it. Believe it or not, the proximity helps me cope. Being faced with the memories every day, I can't hide or avoid my demons."

Haustin gazed across the street. "Think that's the biggest factor in getting over it?"

He felt Junior assessing him and wondered what he saw, what anyone saw, then decided he didn't want to know.

"Might have been. I also have a support system, people I talk to about it. It sounds like a shit explanation, I know, but talking helps. Once I came to terms with being alive, living got easier. Ignoring the buildup is the same as keeping century-old dynamite in a kid's bouncy castle. The slightest disturbance means disaster."

"What about the rage?"

"Faded, after a while. I didn't make mine worse with drugs and alcohol."

Shame crept into Haustin's face, heating his cheeks, and he fumbled for a response. "I never cared who saw or heard until recently. All that mattered was the next glass, the next beer to chase the pills," he croaked.

"I hear stories," Junior said. "You're not the only firefighter who's gone down that road. A lot of guys I know are worse off. Can I ask what happened to bring you here tonight of all nights?"

"Little bit of everything. I miss my kids." His voice cracked at mentioning Miles and Luna. "They're strangers to me and, when I'm sober, I realize how bad I've hurt them. For the first time in years, I need to make them my priority. My wife, or my ex, I guess I should say... I see the husk I turned her into and the life I sucked from her. Plus, there's a woman." His stare returned across the street. "She was there. I saved her when the first tower came down, and she battles the consequences too, this PTSD or whatever it is, and turned to drugs. She came through the other side, stronger. Yael's success makes me aspire to be better, to look at the future, and heal the rift with my kids. Of course, me being me, I screwed it up. Pills and alcohol were involved."

Whoa. He hadn't meant to let so much slip. This whole reflection and letting go ordeal had messed with his normal defenses. He couldn't believe he was standing here on the sidewalk spouting off sentimental crap fifty yards from his own personal hell.

Junior smiled at him. "A woman's a healthy reason to change, brother. If she's that special, fight, but keep it in perspective. It's not the only thing to live for." He sobered a little. "You're not alone, you know. We work this job and come to consider ourselves as tough, invincible, solitary men. 9/11 taught us we aren't, that we're human and able to hurt in the most terrible ways possible. You need to accept that before you can let go. You're not alone," he repeated. "Never were."

Sorrow grabbed Haustin and squeezed tight, cutting off his air. It took a few tries, but he managed to speak past it. "I appreciate it, I do, but letting others in is the hard part. I shut out my wife and kids, destroyed my marriage, and allowed this darkness to fester. I can talk to Yael about it. She understands. Hell, I held her in my arms as both towers crashed on top of us." Haustin sighed. "I can't keep it bottled up anymore. It's not fair to her or my kids."

"She's a recovering addict?" Haustin nodded. "One of the twelve steps for addicts is to make amends to those you hurt with your actions. Our convictions and survivor's guilt over 9/11 is a form of addiction. Many of us feed off it, use our failures as an excuse to wallow." He put a steady hand on Haustin's shoulder. "It's not too late to make amends, Haus. You're thinking about it. You're talking about it. That's a step in the right direction. You've got air in your lungs. Don't waste it."

"God, I wish I was where you are," Haustin said with a slight chuckle, admiring Junior's knowledge and peaceful attitude.

"It'll come. Trust me. You're a good guy who's made crappy decisions. Don't let that be your legacy."

To lighten the moment, he joked, "You sound like a damn Hallmark card."

"Guess I do." Junior beamed. "A new baby will do that to a man."

"Hell. Congratulations. Got a picture?"

"Sure do," he said as he reached for his phone.

They chatted a bit longer about easy things then shook hands as Haustin said goodbye. Heading to his truck, he sensed fewer shadows following him. It was a miracle, of sorts, or at least the beginning of one. Junior's mention of amends stayed with him as he started the engine. Pulling out his phone, he fiddled with the cracked screen and called Lindsey.

"I need to talk to you and the kids. It's important. I'll be there in half an hour."

By the time Haustin arrived at Lindsey's, it was a little before eleven. The closer he'd gotten to her house, the more he doubted his spontaneous decision. Did he really think he could begin mending his fences in a single night? The part that scared him the most was not being able to put his apologies and emotions into words and blundering it like he always did.

On the sidewalk in front of the house, he took a few minutes to calm himself, sucking in deep breaths of the grass-scented air. He remembered warm, summer mornings doing yard work and evenings hosting neighborhood barbecues, teaching Luna to ride her bike in the driveway a month or two before 9/11. It was another life, one he missed desperately.

The porch light shone, a beacon drawing him in, and he trudged up the steps. By the time he reached the door, Lindsey already had it open. Instead of her customary suspicious greeting, she appeared concerned.

"Everything okay?" she asked as she let him in. Her gaze landed on his face. "Oh my God, Haustin, what happened?"

He flinched as she touched the cut on his lip. "Abel and I had a disagreement about whether I should be drunk in the firehouse or not. He won."

"I see that." She sighed. "Come into the kitchen. I'll clean it up."

"Where are the kids?"

"Asleep. I thought I'd see what was going on first. And by the looks of you, I'm glad I did."

Haustin leaned against the counter as she reached into the cabinet next to the sink for the first aid kit. After pouring some peroxide on a cloth, she dabbed his lip and the cut on his temple. He hissed at the stinging pain.

"Talk," she ordered once she was done, moving on to brewing him a cup of coffee. At least he thought it was coffee.

"What is that thing?" he inquired, delaying his explanation and eyeing the funny-looking machine on the counter.

"It's new. It's called a Kuerig. Brews one serving of coffee at a time. Tea, too. You put a cup in here," she popped a small plastic tub in the top, "and it comes out here."

"What's wrong with the old-fashioned kind?" He accepted the mug and took a tentative sip. "Tastes the same."

"If you want one cup, why waste a whole pot?"

"Who only drinks one?"

Lindsey crossed her arms and gave him a pointed look. "You're stalling."

He sagged, staring into the dark brown liquid. "Started like it always does. Bad fire. Kid trapped. Couldn't get to him. It was bad, Linds. It rattled me, worse than anything in a long time. I guess my defenses are out of whack, or I was actually sober. Who knows. I self-destructed, walked off my shift." Her eyebrows rose. "Yeah. Hours passed, pills, booze, and then I went to Yael's. I can't talk about that part yet. Anyway, ended up at Ground Zero, at Ten House."

Understanding dawned. "The memorial?"

"Do you know I haven't been there? Avoided it. Only this time, I was drawn to that wall." He paused, searching for the right explanation. "It was like going to confession, laying my sins on an altar. I let go of my guilt, right there in front of those 343 names, and said goodbye."

His sentence ended in a half-sob. Irritated at the waterworks, which were never going to stop, Haustin turned and set his mug down. Placing his hands on the counter, he leaned over, unable to reign in tears. A few seconds later, he felt Lindsey's soft touch on his back, familiar and comforting.

"It was a long time coming," she whispered.

He nodded, unable to speak yet. The things he'd said at the memorial returned, as did his conversation about amends. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he spun on Lindsey, desperate to say what he needed to before it got buried again.

"I hurt you for so long, and words are inadequate, I know that, but I'm sorry. The guilt I felt grew too big to deal with, and I reacted negatively, avoiding the effects of my actions. I'm a pathetic coward, but I want to change. Need to." He licked his lips. "I'm afraid of what will happen to me if I don't, of where I'm headed. I treated the three of you like dirt, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life making up for it. I promise."

Her gray eyes spilled over, chin quivering. "You're right. Words are useless, but they matter to me." She pawed at her wet cheeks. "I see it in your face, in the way you've been with the kids lately. Even now, you aren't bogged down as if the weight of the world is on your shoulders. I believe you, but actions will show me you're serious this time, Haustin. Be better for them."

"I'm going to try, for you, too. I'm going to try," he repeated.

She nodded, sniffing and drying her tears. "Do you want to talk to the kids?"

"No. It's late. I'll spend a little time with each of them soon, explain some things. They have a right to know why I am the way I am. Unless you think that's a bad idea?"

"No. I mean, keeping us in the dark hasn't helped, so maybe this new resolution of yours will."

"I hope so. Can I go look in on them?"

"Of course."

Haustin ambled down the hall, stopping first at Miles' door. His son was sprawled across his bed, one leg hanging off the edge, exactly how Haustin slept. He blinked his stinging eyes. Not wanting to disturb his son, he slunk out and moved on to Luna, burrowed deep into a thin pink blanket. His heart ached with pride and love. These amazing human beings were his. By some stroke of fate, they were living, breathing proof he possessed a trace of goodness in him. How dare he despair about his life? Flashes of Luna and the day she was born broke through. She'd been tiny, purple, and screaming. Haustin remembered feeling invincible. Like he'd been the richest man alive. Same with Miles. His future had opened ahead of him. The guy trips they'd take, tossing a baseball in the backyard, teaching him to tune the engine of his first car. A boy! Every man wanted a son to carry on his legacy. Where had that father gone?