Ashes In the Bay

The tin clicked shut like a coffin lid.

Caleb stood outside the bay doors of the fire department, sunlight spilling onto the concrete like a quiet reckoning. In one hand, a cigar—burning low and bitter. In the other, a battered tin of 30MG nicotine pouches, scarred from years of thumb flicks and desperate dawns. He looked at both like old war buddies who’d turned traitor.

Thirteen years old. That’s when it started. A stolen dip in the boat. Felt like power then—felt like a secret only the tough could hold. But that kid didn’t know he’d be standing here decades later, lungs tired, mind fogged, a slave to something that never gave a damn about him.

He tossed the cigar first. It spun like a falling branch and hissed out on the concrete. Then came the pouches. The tin hit the bay floor with a crack and rolled to a stop at the foot of Engine 1,  where he’d spent nights risking his life for strangers—but somehow hadn’t been brave enough to save himself.

Until now.

Cold turkey. No patches. No gum. No bargaining. Just pain. And purpose.

He’d failed before. The Kill the Can group—March 22. He remembered the usernames, the cheers, the promises. He remembered the shame when he caved. When the cravings clawed so hard it felt like his soul was being skinned from the inside out. And he remembered letting them down.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the wind. “I wasn’t ready.”

But now?

Now he had a son who watched his every move. A daughter who deserved a daddy who didn’t disappear for “bathroom breaks” that lasted twenty minutes. A wife who kissed him even when he reeked of smoke and spit and denial. They never asked him to quit. But he owed them the best version of himself—unclouded, unchained.

The first night was hell. The second was worse. Dreams of dipping, ghost pouches on his gums, his body convulsing in withdrawal like a snake shedding skin too fast. He snapped at people. Punched a locker. Cried in his truck. But he didn’t cave.

And on the third day, something shifted.

He woke up and smelled the firehouse coffee—and it smelled real. His hands didn’t tremble reaching for a tin. He looked at a picture of his family taped inside his locker, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like a fraud.

He felt free.

Every day since then has been a war. But he fights. Because this isn’t about pride anymore. It’s about love. It’s about legacy. It’s about telling that thirteen-year-old kid behind the dugout that being a man isn’t about what you put in your lip—it’s about what you lay down for the people you love.

So here he stands, under the sun, breathing deep. No pouches. No smoke. Just fire in his belly and a future worth bleeding for.

Caleb quit nicotine cold turkey.

And this time – it’s forever.

NOTE: This piece written by Kill The Can community member CousinEddie