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The fire started at two in the morning, small enough that it might have been an accident, deliberate enough that Marcus Webb knew it wasn't. He stood in the gravel lot of his grandfather's paper mill watching flames lick through the loading dock's wooden frame, his twelve-year-old son Isaac beside him in pajamas and boots, both of them understanding without saying it that someone had just delivered a message more direct than words. The Riverside Volunteer Fire Department arrived within twenty minutes, their equipment old but well-maintained, their faces showing recognition when they saw Marcus. Small towns remembered military families, especially ones whose grandfathers had employed half the county before the paper industry died and took good jobs with it. "Electrical fire, probably," Chief Daniels said after his crew had knocked down the flames, though his tone suggested he didn't believe his own words. "Old building, old wiring, these things happen." Marcus didn't argue, just nodded and thanked them for their quick response. But as the trucks pulled away and dawn started breaking over the Catawba River that had powered the mill for a hundred years, he walked the perimeter of the loading dock examining what the fire had touched and what it had avoided. Selective burning, the kind that came from knowing exactly where to start a fire that would destroy specific structures without spreading to the main building. Isaac watched from a safe distance, his face carrying the careful neutrality he'd learned from growing up on military bases where showing fear was a liability. "Someone did this on purpose," he said when Marcus returned to where they'd parked his truck. "Yeah." "Because we came back?" "Probably." Marcus put his arm around his son's shoulders, both of them looking at the mill that had dominated Riverside's economy for three generations before cheaper overseas production made American paper mills obsolete. "But we're not leaving because someone set a fire. We've faced worse."