People . . . not so much.
Too many people let their identities get wrapped up in belongings. Homes become sanctuaries, and memories attach themselves to things that are replaceable. Nature threatening to rip away that sense of safety forces people to face unimaginable loss head-on. More times than not, they can’t handle it and end up coping by pretending the worst cannot happen to them.
But the worstcanhappen to anyone.
All I can do is keep digging and clearing brush, letting Harlowe do her thing until I’ve got no choice but to pull us back.
If she can’t convince him to leave, hopefully I’ll have done enough to hold the fire line and keep the blaze on the other side of the road and save Harlowe the job of returning for a recovery.
My head is on a swivel, sweat continuing to pour down my temple.
We’re almost out of time.
The sickly sweet smell of vanilla floods the forest as the ponderosa pines burn. The thick heat presses at my back and shifting winds kick up dust around my legs.
It’s now or never.
On the porch, it’s more of the same—Harlowe holds the line while the guy bellows more nonsense, still shaking his head like he gets a vote. My instincts roar to life as the branches sway behind the old guy’s house.
For once, I hate being right.
I open my mouth to tell the incident commander it’s time to move just as the gruff expression falters, making the homeowner look almost sensible.
Harlowe lifts her phone, holding it in front of his face.
I dig the arched end of my Pulaski into the dirt and lean on the handle.
The incident commander swipes a finger across the phone screen. He takes the phone, bringing it closer, and then, to my utter shock, he deflates, all his posturing turning to agreement.
Who the hell is this guy and where’s he been the whole time.
Harlowe’s hand grips his shoulder as she gives him instructions before he disappears into the house.
She hums as walks over to where I’m clearing the last of the vegetation, her thumb pointing behind her. “He’s just grabbing his bag and keys.”
“You’re awfully pleased,” I say without looking up from my work. “How’d you change his mind?”
“Sometimes all you need is the right motivation.”
I swipe my brow. “You threaten to carry him down yourself?”
“As fun as that would’ve been . . . no.” She’s lighter, even chuckling. “He became a grandfather this morning. My friend Aspen’s a nurse—she sent me a video with permission. That’s what got through to him.”
That garners my attention.
I stop, glancing back at the house and then to her.
Every other IC I’ve worked with would have just pushed harder, but she found the key and turned it.
My head shakes in disbelief.
Sometimes the simplest answer is the one everyone else is unwilling to try.
“That’ll do it.”
Relief leaks out of her in a short huff; her smile widens.
She loves this job. Like,really,loves it. It’s her purpose.
