Someone is screaming in a language I don’t know. One of the hikers, the girl, woman. A man stands with her, one hand on her shoulder while she points at the flames, jumping and shaking. It’s not her friend, it’s Brian—took me a second to recognize him in plainclothes. He’s got no radio, nothing to communicate with, but people are spilling up from the village now with tiny fire extinguishers and sloshing buckets, so he must have mobilized them at some point, Lannie and Ian and John Jones, bless him, carrying the largest bucket of the bunch.

They’re all three walking, though. Not running. Like they already know there’s nobody to save.

The tourist is hollering. “Just … help! Why do you not help?!”

“I am very sorry.” Brian’s voice sounds robotic. He says it again, trying for a better delivery. “I’m very sorry.” His brow creases. “Did you know about the Day?”

“What?” She tears at her blond hair. “I don’t understand these words!”

Matthew reaches Brian and points toward me. I force myself to stand still instead of shrinking back, away from the smoke, the acrid meaty smell, the awful knowledge of what’s causing it.

There’s some expectation here, a role I have to play. I need to at least learn what it is before finding a way of avoiding it. This is all so beyond me.

Brian raises a hand, then strides quickly over, leaving the tourist to crumple into a crouched ball on the ground, rocking, rocking.

“Two dead, milady.” There’s an odd briskness to Brian’s voice, like he’s giving a satisfactory progress report to a superior. “Hikers.”

I picture them now, the two smiling men. Those bright teeth. She’s still rocking, face covered.

“Do you have their names?” My voice shakes a little. I force it steady. “We should inform their families.”

Matthew and Brian exchange a glance. I can’t read it.

“Perhaps you could ask her.” Matthew squints away, seaward, but I can tell by his stiff tone that he’s talking to me.

This woman. She looks like a wounded animal. Part of me wants to cradle her, and the rest wants to run fast in the other direction.

Run, Nina. You’re good at running.

I start toward her, then peer back at Brian, one finger pressed to my throbbing temple. “Three.”

Brian squints.

Matthew turns to him. It takes him a pained second to nod. “John Ashford.”

“Fuck.” Brian spits onto the ground, rubs it out with his boot. “Yep. Right.”

They stand in silence as I reach the hiker. I crouch and press my hands lightly against her bare shoulders. She’s wearing hardly anything, a tank top, fleece sweatpants. They were sleeping when this happened.

She’s shivering hard but doesn’t look up until I lean in.

“Let’s get you warm,” I say.