Page 13 of Burning for the Mountain Man

The question sits in my chest like a coal. Burning.

Back at the station, the engine bay is empty. Bobby's truck is gone. Evening light comes through the bay doors at a low angle, throwing long shadows across Truck 2. From upstairs, faint sounds. Floorboards. The tap running.

My laptop is in the bunk room. A department-issue ThinkPad that mostly collects dust because I do everything on the radio or in person. But it has email. State email. The kind of email that reaches desks in Carson City where people make decisions about funding and personnel and whether a volunteer fire department in a mountain town deserves more than a seasonal coordinator who rotates out every October.

The email takes forty-five minutes to write. Rewrite. Delete. Rewrite again.

From: N. Deveraux, Fire Chief, Whisper Vale VFD To: State Forestry Commission, Personnel Division CC: District Coordinator, Prevention Programs RE: Request for Permanent Prevention Coordinator Position — Whisper Vale District

To Whom It May Concern,

I am writing to formally request the creation of a permanent, year-round wildfire prevention coordinator position for the Whisper Vale District.

Since the assignment of our current seasonal coordinator, defensible space compliance has increased from 42% to 64% in three weeks. A prescribed burn program has been developed with full cost projections and timeline. The community notification system has been updated for the first time since 2019. Fuel load assessments have been completed on the north ridge corridor using firsthand backcountry data collection, identifying critical vulnerabilities that previous seasonal rotations did not address.

These improvements cannot be sustained through seasonal assignments. The institutional knowledge required to maintain community relationships, coordinate with volunteer personnel, and implement long-term prevention strategies is lost every time a coordinator rotates out of the district.

Whisper Vale's fire risk profile — wildland urban interface structures, limited volunteer capacity, single-digit humidity fire seasons, high tourist traffic — requires year-round prevention management. This position would be the first of its kind in the district and would serve as a model for similar rural volunteer departments statewide.

I have attached supporting documentation including the current coordinator's preliminary assessment, fuel load data, prescribed burn proposals, and compliance improvement metrics.

I am not requesting that any specific individual be assigned to this position. I am requesting that the state recognize this district's need for permanent prevention infrastructure and create the position accordingly.

Respectfully, Nash Deveraux Fire Chief, Whisper Vale Volunteer Fire Department

Print. Fold. The paper goes into a folder from the supply cabinet. My hands are shaking, which is ridiculous because I've carried a chainsaw into a crown fire and never trembled. But this is different. Fire I understand. Walking upstairs to the woman I pushed away and handing her a reason to stay? That's a burn I haven't trained for.

The exterior staircase is twelve steps. I've counted them once. Right now, walking up to her apartment with a folder in my hand at eight PM on a Thursday, it feels like a hundred.

Her door is ajar. The lock I fixed works fine now, which means she left it open on purpose. Through the gap, she's sitting cross-legged on the bed in my old department shirt, the one she took from the doorknob four days ago. Tablet on her lap. Hair down. Face washed clean of trail dust.

She looks up. Sees me. Her expression goes guarded, then tired, then something raw underneath both.

"Door was open," I say.

"Noticed."

Stepping inside, I close it behind me. The apartment is small enough that we're already too close, and she hasn't moved from the bed. The duffel is at her feet. Still open. Still half-packed.

The folder lands on the counter between us. She stares at it.

"What is that?"

"Open it."

She unfolds herself from the bed. Bare feet on the cold floor, my shirt hitting her mid-thigh. The tablet stays behind. She picks up the folder, reads the email once. Then again, slower. Her lips move slightly on the second pass.

When she looks up, her eyes are wet.

"You sent this to the state."

"Forty-five minutes ago."

"Nash." Her voice cracks on my name. "You can't just create a position because⁠—"

"I'm not asking you to take the job, Autumn." Closing the distance, I stop two feet away. Her hands grip the folder, knuckles pale. "I'm asking the state to create it. Whether you want it is up to you."

"You wrote this to keep me here."