Waking to a hot lick of dog's breath was not Marshall Davies idea of a great start to the day. Swiping a hand across his face, he rolled away from an avid, slobbering tongue.

"Down. Down, LeBron. Jesus," he muttered, pushing eighty pounds of hyper Labrador off of him. Sitting up straight, Marshall's head spun on his shoulders and a spike of pain ripped down his right arm.

Fast, sharp. He swore a vicious stream, hugging the limb to his body.

He breathed through the worst of it, waited for his heart to kick back down to normal before he tested for range of movement. Rolling his right shoulder, the joint whined like a bitch in heat, but what else was new? Served him right for sleeping on it.

Lifting his hand, Marshall flexed his fingers, rotated his wrist and shook it out, willing the sensation to fade. At least his arm wasn't shaking, he thought. And when he pressed his thumb to fingertips there was no lingering threads of discomfort or weakness in the grip. Be patient, he told himself, stuffing his left hand into the back pocket of the jeans he'd slept in and cursed.

No smokes. This was two days in to Going-Cold-Turkey 4.0.

So, to curb the itch, he dug around in a kitchen drawer for a pack of gum and punched a couple of tablets from the plastic casing. Cinnamon worked best for soothing his nerves. The heat and spice coating his tongue and firing down his throat. But it was a poor, poor substitute for the smoky pull of nicotine.

While the coffeemaker gurgled to life, Marshall snatched up his laptop and plunked down on a weathered sectional, kicking his feet up on the length. A few clicks and he was in his email, pushing and wading through until he found the one he was looking for from his editor, Danni Dobre.

Clock's ticking, buddy. Gervais isn't going to sit on this forever. Time to make a decision. Tell me I haven't backed the wrong horse?

While LeBron whipped around in spastic circles, bounding from kitchen to living room and back, Marshall sat in frowning silence.

He could read the subtext easy enough. Slapping the top down with a muttered oath, he set the computer aside.

Nearly six months since that stray bullet pumped from a Nigerian rebel's gun knocked him clean off his feet and straight into physical rehab, you'd think the guy could get a bit of break. For ten years he'd circled the world, three times over, covering political unrest, global suffrage and terrorist uprisings.

He'd lived for the rush and thrill, and prided himself on digging deep to find the heavy-hitting cases that struck the jugular, and newspaper gold. At thirty-four he'd carved out a pretty impressive reputation.

Deadline Davies. The man who got the impossible done. The man without fear.

The man who was now secretly scared shitless after a near brush with death.

Tingling worked down his arm, shooting from elbow to wrist, spiking into his fingers. Nerve damage and residual bruising, the doctors had said, from the bullet ripping through muscle. Most of the damage had been reversed with rehab, but it was possible that it would never quite go away. That he'd live with this for the rest of his life.

Clock's ticking, buddy...Yeah, it fucking was. This time last year he'd been at the top of his game. A force to be reckoned with. Now he had to ask himself which way he wanted to go, left--back to the grind and pulse hammering beat of chasing a killer story. Or spiralling down the drain to land with the rest of the bloodied corpses of the broken and burnt out...

In his kitchen, Marshall rummaged around, between bottles and debris, for his phone. Punching in Danni's number, he waited all of three rings for her to answer with a firm, no-nonsense, "What?"

"Dee," he said, leaning against the counter.

"Marshall. Bout freaking time. What the hell took you so long?"

"You sent me that email only six hours ago."

"Yeah. A whopping five and a half longer then Deadline Davies would have wasted, once upon a time."

"So what's the deal?" he asked, brushing a hand over his face, palm clammy with sweat. "Gervais looking to push me out? Downgrade me to the advice column?"

Danni snorted over the line and hearing her strained laughter had a knot seize in his guts. Here he was, fate hanging in the balance, potentially about to lose everything he had and she was laughing?

"It's not funny, Dee."

"Actually, you moron, it is. Did you even read the damn email I flipped you?"

"Course I did."

"All of it?"

Marshall's scowl deepened as he swiped through his cupboard for a clean mug. Poured in a heavy stream of black coffee. "Most of it."

"Idiot," she sighed. "I don't know if I should be surprised. Let me guess, you hit as far as 'new direction' and your balls shrunk to marbles?"

He chugged down the first half of the scalding brew in a single, bracing swallow. Hissed against the delicious burn. "Maybe. Can you blame me? We all know what new direction is code for, Dee." Lightheaded, Marshall set down his cup. God dammit, he wasn't going to let it happen. Not now. He hadn't had a panic attack in weeks.

Sucking in slow, easy breaths he willed his body to relax. To unwind.

Sensing his waves of unease, LeBron bounded over, nuzzled a wet nose into his trembling hand. Marshall stroked that soft head, and soaked up comfort like a dry sponge.

"In most cases, sure. But not this time."

Over the line he heard the rapid-fire tapping of keys and pictured Danni, blonde hair a wild mess atop her head-held in place by a gnawed on pencil-shoulders hunched and bare feet tucked up on her seat.

"What if I told you that CTV is looking to bring in some new blood for their evening news desk?"

His heart kicked into an unnatural rhythm, but this time it was excitement instead of white-knuckled terror.

"What if I told you," those fingers stilled and the line went very, very quiet, "that LaFlamme is stepping down?"

"No way."

"Way."

"Why?"

"Cancer. Stage four. In her bones, so I'm told. Off the record, for now. Producers want to keep this quiet until they've secured her replacement. We've got little over three months to push you up the short-list."

"Shit." Legs weak, Marshall slid to the floor. Laughed. LeBron stretched across his lap, stroking his neck with long, lavishing licks. "Holy shit."

"Don't get too psyched, yet. You've got competition and it's a doozy."

Clearing the fog from his brain, Marshall whipped through the possibilities, and one in particular shot straight to the forefront. "Clear."

"That why I love you, buddy. Good to see the time off hasn't dulled your smarts. Since your messy break-up, Catherine's been Gervais' favourite, and he's pushing her hard while you've been off."

"Jesus, Dee, I've been fighting for my life. You make it sound like I've been on extended holiday in a resort spa, or something."

"I'm sorry, okay? But you know how this works-the moment you're off the radar you're irrelevant. Doesn't matter why. And what's worse is Gervais thinks you're washed up. Over. I need Deadline Davis back."

Marshall pressed a hand to his belly, swallowed the rise of vomit. "You want me back on the ground?"

"No. Thank God. Not that. After the Boko Haram incident, Canada loves you. And CTV loves that Canada loves you. But they're not entirely sold. We need to show them you're more than bullets and blood and bombs."

More? What more could they possibly want? Or need?

"A softer side," Danni continued. "This is good news, buddy. If you nail this then you can kiss the trenches goodbye. Your days of dodging danger are over. You'll be at the top. The youngest CTV evening news anchor to assume the mantle. A legend."

LeBron popped up at his side and Marshall locked eyes with that kind, patient face.

"Dee," he said after a long, bracing pause. "Do you think I'm washed up?"

"Fuck no, buddy. You've got this. I believe in you."

Marshall closed his eyes. Smiled. And within him, somewhere deep inside, a spark blossomed...

"I want my life back, Dee. I want to be me again."

"Atta boy. Why don't you put your ear to the ground, get the rust off those gears? We'll meet next week and set up a game plan."

"Alright. Okay." Ending the call, Marshall lurched to his feet, whistled for LeBron. He bounded up with an excited yip, and wound around Marshall's legs as he led him out to the backdoor, cracked it open and took off like a shot. Birds scattered to the trees, squirrels bounded out of LeBron's path and above a crisp, blue sky stretched far as he could see.

A gorgeous day. Following his last session of rehabilitation therapy, he'd been holed away in this cabin by the lake for near four weeks. Time to re-join the land of the living.

From the corner of his vision, Marshall caught sight of a tattered, scrap of leather. Tucking his phone into his pocket, he crossed the room and freed the bundle from its place in the corner, buried until a tumbled stack of books he'd poured himself into day and night for the last month.

The leather satchel was scarred. Weathered. Beat to hell and back. This damn thing had seen him through most of his career. Even had a bullet-hole from a civil uprising in Cairo.

Marshall stuck his finger in that hole, wiggled it around. After all that he'd seen, crawling belly down in three inches of jungle mud in Borneo, walking away from a rolled jeep in the Congo...two weeks in as a hostage in a terrorist camp...he was lucky to be alive. He'd survived.

And, like this satchel, he was a long way off from falling apart at the seams.

#

The wrath of Hailey spewed hot and heavy for four days before weathering out to cool indifference. Nerves frayed from the shocking extremes, if this was Hailey at twelve, Eva dreaded the teenager years yet to come.

She woke to the sound of her alarm that went off every morning at precisely 5:30am. Not that she needed it. Her body was so aptly attuned with impending sunrise she was awake at least a full minute before the first chime. Rising from the couch bed, she folded sheets and tucked in the pull-out mattress, replacing cushions and pillows.

There, she thought, hands on her hips. No one would ever know she'd slept down here, night after night.

Stretching through a yawn, Eva lumbered upstairs, pausing to poke her head into the two spare bedrooms. Sleepy snores drifted to her and she smiled, remembering the weekend they'd devoted to painting and decorating. Payton and Lucy both squabbling over colours; one wanting blue, the other a pale pink. Eva had resolved the dispute by painting a wall each, the rest of the room in soft, muted cream.

As for Hailey's room, she had required some coaxing and nudging, eventually conceding on a colour scheme of fuchsia and tangerine. A bit on the eye-glaring side, but Eva knew when to pick and choose her battles and let Hailey do as she wished.

Slipping into as yet untouched master bedroom, Eva navigated around stacked boxes, a mattress and box spring still in its factory wrapping, and into the adjoining bathroom. There, she faced her morning reflection with a scowl.

A shock of dark hair fell into her eyes and she pushed it back with an impatient hand. It grew fast and took over, like dandelions in a lawn. Uneven layers hung around long, lean features, framing a face dominated by large brown eyes. Her mother's eyes, she thought with a lurch of pain remembering always brought.

She threaded her hair in her hands, lifted it off her head and examined the new growth. At least three inches in the last month leaving the end result almost...flattering. Eva's scowl deepened.

Well, she'd just have to do something about that. And reached for the scissors inside the medicine cabinet. With no real thought or interest to aesthetics, she cut and snipped, black strands floating and falling around her like ash.

When the necessary was finished, Eva dressed in worn jeans, faded converse and one of a dozen over-sized button-up shirts she cuffed at the elbows. This one a pale blue with faded white stripes. As part of her morning routine, and one of only a few things she indulged in, Eva took her coffee out to the bluffs just off the backyard.

There, among the quiet of the rocks, trees and naked ocean waters, she watched the glory of the rising sun, her heart swelling with happiness and fear.

Haven was aptly named. With its lush greenery, surrounded by brilliant blue waters, it felt a world away from everything. Even though she could see the spires and protrusions of the Vancouver cityscape along the horizon, only a two-hour ferry ride, but to her mind distant as the stars.

Here, where the cliffs rose thirty feet above the water with the waves crashing against the rock-face, she breathed in the salty air and hoped. Hoped for peace of mind and security. Hoped for happiness and a simple, unassuming life that most took for granted.

And most of all, she hoped that her long, terrible and gut-wrenching road had finally come to a stop. Now she was home. Such a simple word, so easily overlooked and taken for granted. How long since she had felt that way about a place? About a community? But she had almost the instant she'd arrived in Haven.

Home. This was home. And, this time, she'd fight like hell to stay.