I spend most of my waking hours in a place called Eagles Bend. It is bright, noisy, and ordinary. On paper it is just a department store. For me it became the stage for a story about fire, warning, and the quiet choices that shape eternity.

When I began to write this book, I wanted a setting that felt close to daily life. I did not picture a distant battlefield or an underground base. I kept seeing the place where I clock in, grab my keys, and walk through aisles filled with shoes, toys, snacks, fishing gear, and school clothes. I kept seeing Eagles Bend.

Stand at the front doors and look inside. You see lines of clothing racks. To the left there are long shoe aisles. To the right you see all the little “essentials” that children reach for with eager hands. The layout is smart. It keeps you moving and keeps the cart from staying empty. Past all of that you reach the middle wall that divides the front from the back. Beyond that wall there are tables, a counter, and the smell of burgers and fries from Burger n Go. You can eat, rest, and shop without stepping outside.

Behind that comfort there is another world. A plain break room. Lockers. An employee restroom. Large electric panels hum on the wall like quiet hearts keeping the building alive. A thin wall separates that area from the loading dock. There is even a roll up door that opens straight into the store, although no one uses it. We stack so much inventory in front of it that most people forget it exists.

As I prayed through the idea for this book, that layout started to feel like a picture. The front of the store looks like the part of life we show others. Neat racks, bright signs, safe conversations. The middle wall feels like the line between public and private life. On one side you have the world you present. On the other side you have the places where you drop your guard and sigh in the break room.

Then there is the back hallway with the breaker panels. That place is simple. No decorations. No sales signs. Those panels are not impressive to customers, yet they carry the whole load of the building. When I wrote about the electrical fire in that corner, it felt like more than a random emergency. It felt like a mirror of the way hidden systems in our lives can break down while the front of the “store” still looks fine.

A department store also felt honest because it holds many small temptations. Shiny displays, impulse buys at child level, gadgets that promise comfort and escape. None of it looks dangerous at first glance, yet it pulls at desire and keeps the heart scattered. I wanted a setting that made sense of the Bible’s warnings about loving the world and setting the mind on things above while still standing at a real job in a real town.

There was a practical reason too. I know this world. I know the sound of the doors in the morning and the quiet of the aisles before customers arrive. I know the way coworkers swap stories at the tables near Burger n Go. Writing from a department store allowed me to stay close to my real voice and to tell the truth about fear, faith, and responsibility without dressing it up.

Most of all, I chose this setting because I believe God speaks in ordinary places. He moves through break rooms, parking lots, and clearance aisles as surely as He moves through cathedrals. A department store is a place where families argue, children laugh, lonely people wander, and workers pray under their breath while they stock shelves. It is a small sample of the world, which made it the right place for a story that asks whether we will wake up or stay asleep while smoke gathers overhead.

My hope is that when readers finish the book, they never walk through a store in quite the same way. I hope they notice the hidden doors, the humming panels, the exits that are easy to overlook. I hope they feel a quiet nudge when something in their soul smells like smoke. That is why I set my story in a department store. It is where I work. It is where I watch people every day. It is where the fire started for me, both on the page and in my heart.