Page 76 of Stuck With the Smokejumper

Somebody calls my name. Break's over. Whether I'm ready for it or not, I have to shove all of this down far enough to be useful to the people standing next to me. Because fear that makes you careless gets someone hurt out here. I check my phone one last time. Nothing. I put it away and go to work.

It's what Ivy would do. It's what she did, sending me that message and then getting back to whatever needed doing. So I do the same. I follow instructions. I pay attention. I try to not let what I can't control bleed into what I still can. It takes everything I have. Every legitimate break, every pause for water, my hand goes to my phone. Nothing. Back to work. An hour later, same thing. Nothing. I catch Reid doing it too.

Late in the day we get an update. Timber Creek remains threatened. Evacuation's underway, mostly complete for residential areas. Crews continue working the incident. No catastrophic news. No report that infrastructure has burned.

But also no information about Blackpine fire personnel. That's the part I need, but it's the one piece nobody has for me.

Smoke still hangs low over the western ridge from our own fire. My body's exhausted after a long operational day. My mind isn't tired at all. By evening, the work slows enough for me to check again. Nothing. I try calling Ivy again. Nothing.

My own service is working fine now, sufficient bars, everything functioning the way it should. That almost makes it worse. My phone works. Hers, wherever she is, apparently doesn't.

Here's what I know: there's an active wildfire threatening Timber Creek. Residents have been evacuated. Blackpine personnel are part of the response. Communications in the area are unreliable. Ivy's last message came over two days ago.

Here's what I don't know: where she is right now. What assignment she's working. Whether she's still near town or somewhere else. Whether she's gotten any of the messages I've sent. Whether, right this minute, she's okay.

I check my phone one more time before I try to get whatever sleep I can tonight.

Nothing.

I lie back against my pack, phone still in my hand, screen gone dark. Somewhere out there, Ivy's doing what I'm doing right now. Working. Waiting for a break to check a phone that isn't giving her anything either. Telling herself the same things I'm telling myself, that no news isn't bad news, that trained people know what they're doing, that this is just how it goes sometimes.

I've spent years being fine with silence. Assignments where I disappeared for a week and never thought twice about who might be sitting somewhere wondering if I was okay. It never occurred to me there was a cost to that, not really, not until tonight, lying here aware how many hours it's been since I knew for certain she was safe.

I'm not going to decide what this means. Not tonight, not like this, not with fear doing most of the talking. But I know this much: I have never once, in my entire life, wanted to hear someone's voice the way I want to hear hers right now. Not to ask her anything. Not even to say anything in particular.

Just to hear it.

I continue holding my phone and stare up at a sky still faintly orange at the edges from a fire that isn't hers.

twenty-nine

Ivy

I've been running on four hours of sleep, two granola bars, and coffee strong enough to qualify as a controlled substance.

My hands ache from gripping tools most of the day. My clothes reek of smoke and sweat and something that might have once been sunscreen. I'm filthy in a way that goes beyond the ordinary trail-dirt of a normal summer. But I'm still moving, still working, still upright.

Timber Creek looks nothing like itself.

Main Street sits empty, storefronts dark, the coffee shop's chalkboard sign still propped on the sidewalk advertising a special nobody's going to order today. No cars in front of Mercer's. No families walking dogs. No kids on bikes. No one leaning against a truck talking to a neighbor. Just fire vehicles moving through, radio traffic crackling from every direction, smoke hanging low enough over the valley that the light's gone strange, orange-gray, like the whole afternoon is filtered through something.

I've never seen the town like this. It's unsettling in a way I don't have time to fully process, but also, quietly, a relief. Empty means people listened. Empty means Marlene and Mrs. Caldwell and everyone else I've known my whole life are somewhere safe right now, not standing in their driveways hoping the wind changes.

The last two days have been a blur of long shifts and short sleep. After Russ told us we were shifting toward Timber Creek, everything moved fast. The fire behaved worse than anyone hoped. The evacuation order came. More resources poured in from every direction. Power went out in parts of the district. Cell service, already thin out here, collapsed under the strain of everyone trying to reach everyone else at once.

I haven't had a moment to think about how tired I am until now, crouched beside a woodpile I'm clearing from the side of a garage, hands raw, back aching.

Blackpine's crew isn't handling the main fireline. Specialized suppression crews have that. Blackpine's doing what Blackpine's good at: structure protection, defensible space, clearing brush and debris from around vulnerable properties along the edge of town, keeping access roads usable for the resources that need them. I've spent the day pulling dead pine needles off roofs, hauling firewood away from siding, clearing anything that could catch and carry flame closer to a house.

I know most of these houses. That's the part that gets me, working my way down a road I've driven a hundred times, recognizing a mailbox, a fence line, a barn I've admired every summer for its faded red paint. These aren't structures on an incident map. This is the Hendersons' place. Across the street is where the Whitfield kids grew up. I'm clearing brush around actual lives, not abstractions.

Tessa's a few yards over working steadily, exhausted enough that even her usual commentary has gone quiet. Dani's efficient as ever, methodical, checking off tasks like a list only she can see. Cassidy keeps pace without complaint. Trevor's helping wherever an extra set of hands is needed. Nolan, the newbie who once flooded the crew house kitchen when he left the water running, works like someone who belongs here now, following instructions without hesitation, pulling more than his share.

Russ moves between all of us, radio in hand, face gray with exhaustion I've never seen on him before, but still Russ. Steady. Focused. Watching conditions, relaying updates, making sure everyone knows what they're supposed to be doing and why.

If I have to be anywhere near a threatened town, I'm glad it's here, with Russ.

During a short break, I check my phone out of habit more than hope. No signal, same as it's been for most of three days. I've tried sending messages anyway, into whatever void exists between me and actual reception, hoping something might squeeze through.