In no way is this fire under control, Alberta’s PM announced on the screen, the marquee below suggesting Saskatchewan and Northwest Territory were now under threat. Derek found it reprehensible to be sitting here when he could be of use elsewhere. He could be serving alongside the rest of the reservists. He unconsciously lowered his hand to grip his wrist, where beneath the merino wool sweater burn scars covered his forearm. He’d received the third degree burns while deployed in Saskatchewan and British Columbia the year prior, assisting the firefighting efforts.
If there was something Derek Marcks was more loyal to than his country, it was his family. Life hadn’t handed the Marcks many wins as of late, so when he’d heard his father was well enough for the trip he’d been planning for the two of them, he hadn’t hesitated to ask for time off. Considering his father’s condition, this might be the last opportunity he got to fulfil the man’s dying wish. And yet, he still grew restless at the thought of not being in Alberta, or wherever the reserve would be deployed to next.
I need fresh air, he decided, pulling his gaze away from the screen. In his haste to get up, he knocked over the pint of lager in its entirety, the splash attaining both him, the person sitting next to him, and spilling over the counter to the floor. Stumbling backwards, his hand darted for the spilled glassware, but it was much too late.
“I’m sorry!” he gasped, righting the glass away from the mess. His gaze darted across the bar for a helping hand, and in the absence of a bartender, he scanned the ledge behind the counter for a rag. His ridiculous height made the extraction easy, though the raggedy rag would do little to soak up the beer. As he pressed the cloth to the counter’s edge to keep the liquid from spilling any further, he glanced up at the unfortunate victim of his clumsiness.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I’m really sorry.”