Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Finley’s duck-lip selfie popped up on the display of my cell phone, but I pressed END and let my voicemail talk to her instead.

“Your sister again?” Tyler asked, patting his face with an old ratty hand towel. The rest of him was still dirty, as were the rest of us.

I’d forgotten what my hair smelled like when it didn’t reek of smoke, or how my sheets felt against my skin. I pulled my camera off my neck and fell onto the raggedy sofa of the Alpine duty station, deep in the Rocky Mountain National Forest. Fire season had started early, and I’d been camping with the Alpine Hotshots for fourteen days while they fought a fire that dug in so deep the smoke jumpers from all over the country were deployed. According to the Alpine crew, it was their biggest fire in two seasons.

The crew headed for the kitchen, and I sat, my limbs sprawled in every direction, watching them pass by. Every muscle in my body hurt, every joint, even my insides. I’d started my period our second day in fire camp, but it was barely present before it went away, most likely from the sudden surge in activity and decrease in caloric intake. My pants were loose. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to look at myself in the mirror.

Smitty high-fived Taco before opening the fridge and leaning in to weigh his options, his face smudged with soot.

“That got intense for a second there,” Tyler said.

“Thanks for babysitting me … again. And for helping me with my tent. I can’t believe the guys slept on the fire line for three nights. Some of the guys didn’t even have coats.”

“They’re bigger guys. It’s called flight weight—sort of like a weight limit. Sometimes, the helos fly us to the more remote locations, so we don’t have to hike so far on foot. Between equipment, our fuel, and the crew, the helos can only carry so much. Sometimes, Runt will bring one of those aluminum sheets the mountain climbers use for camping because he’s skinny, and he has the flight weight to spare.”

“So you huddle?”

“Huddle, share blankets, spoon … it’s fucking cold up there. Whatever works,” he joked.

“Then why do it?”

“Sleeping on the fire line means hazard pay. Some of the guys prefer it to sleeping at fire camp.”

“The generators were pretty loud,” I said.

“You should have said something. We could have hopped in a truck and driven a little farther out, away from the noise.”

“It was fine. I was fine.”

“For a rich kid, you don’t complain, do you?”

“I loved it out there. I really did.”

Tyler leaned over and sniffed my shoulder. “You smell amazing.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious. Wildland smoke is my favorite smell. On a girl? Makes you strangely appealing.”