Page 110 of Honeyfires

He looked at me across the clearing, his face unreadable beneath the ash and sweat.

"We'll talk about this later, Alves," he said, and I couldn't tell if it was a promise or a threat.

Then we were in the air, lifting away from the ridge, and I could see the full scope of what we'd left behind. The fire had consumed our entire position, had jumped the ridge exactly where we'd been cutting line, and was now making a run for the residential areas to the north. Aerial retardant drops were already in progress, bright red streaks across the hillside, but the fire was moving too fast.

I watched from my position by the open door as the flames reached the first neighborhood. Watched houses begin to burn. Counted them like rosary beads, like prayers, like penance.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Six homes destroyed. Six families losing everything they owned. Because I'd pulled my crew back. Because I'd prioritized their lives over property. Because I'd disobeyed a direct order and the consequence was that people's homes burned while we flew to safety.

Stevens was crying softly in the back of the helicopter, Miller's steady hands on his shoulders, the burns covered with emergency dressing but clearly painful, and a pain I knew all too well. But he was alive. They were all alive. We'd made it out.

And now, six homes were gone, and I'd be the one who had to live with that choice.

I turned away from the window, from the sight of smoke rising like accusations against the morning sky, and met Rodriguez's eyes across the helicopter bay.

His expression was still unreadable, but something in his eyes looked almost like understanding.

Or maybe I was just hoping for absolution that would never come.

You Were Right

Chapter Twenty

The helicopter ride felt both endless and far too short.

Stevens was strapped to the stretcher beside me, his face pale beneath the ash and soot, his breathing labored but steady. The medic, a woman named Fatima Abed, who I'd worked with easily a dozen times, had an oxygen mask over his face and was monitoring his vitals. His shoulder was covered in burn dressing, but I could see the angry red edges where the debris had hit him, could smell the sickly sweet scent of burned flesh mixed with smoke and fear.

"You saved us, Alves." His voice was muffled by the mask, rough with pain and smoke damage. "Cap was wrong."

"Don't talk." I leaned closer, my hand finding his uninjured one and squeezing. "Save your strength."

But he kept talking anyway, the words coming in gasps between labored breaths. "The fire... it would've killed us. You were right. You—" A cough wracked his body, and Abed adjusted a control on the oxygen flow.

"Stevens, I mean it. Stop talking. That's an order."

His eyes found mine through the mask, and I saw something there that made my stomach twist. Trust. Absolute, unwavering trust.

The city lights appeared below us, a constellation of orange and white spreading across the desert valley. Phoenix sprawled beneath us, all light and motion and people who had no idea six families had just lost everything they owned because I'd pulled my crew back from a fire that might not have reached those homes if we'd held our position.

Might not have.

But probably would have.

I kept telling myself that. Kept replaying the wind shift, the spot fires, the crown fire explosion exactly where we'd been standing. We'd have been caught in it. Stevens would have died. Maybe all of us.

But I couldn't know for certain. Not really. And that uncertainty was eating me alive.

The hospital landing pad lit up like a stage, medical personnel already waiting. The moment we touched down, they pulled Stevens out, transferring him to their gurney in a practiced rush they must’ve perfected from years of experience. I tried to follow, but Abed put a hand on my arm.

"You did good," she said, her warm hazel eyes steady on mine. "He's going to be okay because of you."

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and climbed out of the helicopter.

The emergency room was all fluorescent lights and antiseptic smell and the sort of waiting that made your bones ache. They'd separated me from Stevens the moment we arrived, pulling me into a different examination room while he was rushed to the burn unit.

"I need to stay with him," I'd protested, but a nurse, an older woman, probably seen a thousand wildland firefighters come through these doors, just gave me a look that brooked no argument.