Page 48 of Stuck With the Smokejumper

The line's held for six hours, but it's not enough.

Granite Creek isn't like Blackpine's lightning fire, a problem you could see the edges of even while you were fighting it. This is bigger. Wider. The kind of incident where “contained” doesn't mean finished. It means the parts that matter most are holding, but there's always another section that needs strengthening, another spot fire to chase, another stretch of line that isn't yet where it needs to be.

I drag a fresh coil of hose toward the pump, boots sinking slightly in ash-blackened dirt, smoke thick enough overhead that the sun appears a dark orange smear behind the haze. Crews stretch out along the line farther than I can actually see, disappearing into smoke haze in both directions.

Trucks and equipment cluster near the staging area like their own small town. Someone's radio crackles with a division update I only half catch. This is what a real incident looks like, the kind that doesn't get solved in a day, the kind that swallows a whole section of forest and keeps demanding more from everyone working it.

This is the part of the job most people don't see. Hour after hour of grinding work. I like it. That's never been a question. Being useful, being trusted, solving a problem with your hands and your training instead of standing around wondering what to do. Reid's the same way, maybe more than I am. He's been running on pure adrenaline for six hours straight, grinning under all that soot because this is where he wants to be. It’s where I want to be too. Mostly. My mind keeps drifting whenever the work gives it enough room.

We've been in contact, Ivy and I, more than I expected given how demanding the days have been. A text as I finally crash for the night. A quick voice memo she sent describing some disaster involving Nolan and a drainage channel. One actual phone call last night, five good minutes of reception before it cut out, worth every second of the time I spent yesterday thinking about nothing but fire. It's become something I look forward to. A small, reliable thread back to Timber Creek at the end of very long days. I've started timing my exhaustion around it a little, pushing through the last hour of a shift knowing there might be something waiting on my phone once I finally sit down.

During a break for water and a few minutes off my feet, my phone buzzes. A photo first. My Bigfoot caller, sitting on the crew-house kitchen counter.

You left this, the message says. Nolan's been using it. Then, a second later: No confirmed sightings yet. But we found some broken tree limbs near the trail today, so we're not ruling anything out.

I laugh, loudly enough Reid glances over from where he's refilling his water bottle. “Ivy?”

I don't bother asking how he knew. “Nolan's been using my Bigfoot caller.”

Reid's expression goes deadly serious. “Tell her to make sure he doesn't touch my shirt.”

“I'm not telling her that.”

“Beck. Tell her.”

I type it, mostly because arguing with Reid about his new favorite shirt takes more energy than I have to spare.

Her reply comes fast. No promises.

Reid reads it over my shoulder and makes a sound like he's been personally betrayed.

After I stop laughing, it occurs to me there's a reason she sent that photo instead of something else. Ivy could be sending me anything right now. Questions about when I'll be back. Reminders of how much she misses me. Instead, she's sending me pieces of an ordinary evening at the crew house, something to smile about instead of something to feel guilty over. She's keeping the thread between us alive without making the distance heavier than it already is.

I don't know how to tell her that means something to me. So I don't try. I just put my phone away and go back to work. Later, during another short break, Reid catches me checking my phone again, out of habit more than expectation, since there's nothing new.

“Waiting for her?”

I don't bother denying it. “She hides it pretty well. How worried she gets.”

Reid nods. “She's had practice.”

I think about the porch. About what she told me before I left, about pretending not to worry. Her messages have been light and easy since I got here, funny even. I understand now that the lightness isn't the absence of worry. It's what she does instead of putting the worry on me.

Reid doesn't say anything else about it. He's watched Ivy manage this situation his entire adult life, longer than I've known her. Something in the way he lets the subject drop tells me he understands what I'm now starting to.

The change comes late in the operational period, no warning beyond a radio call and a quick huddle around the division supervisor's map. Priorities have shifted. A section farther into the incident needs experienced personnel. Reid and I are part of the group getting moved there. We're heading out as soon as the gear is loaded.

“Where exactly?” Reid asks.

The supervisor points to a spot on the map deep enough into the terrain. I know what's coming before he says it.

“Fair warning,” he says. “Cell service back there is basically nonexistent. Radios work fine for operational stuff, but if you're trying to call home, don't count on it.”

Something in me goes still. I need to let Ivy know. I've got one weak bar, standing near the supply trucks while everyone else loads gear around me. I pull out my phone and type fast.

Heading to another division. Sounds like service is bad out there. Don't worry if you don't hear from me for a couple days. I'll call when I can.

I hit send.