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Sharp pokes of reality.
Of my stupidity.
Then I was back in my SUV, driving out of the lot. Carefully this time. Not tearing out and screeching my tires.
Not disrupting the night.
Not disrupting the man who…
Was my mental and emotion quagmire.
I drove down the silent and dark roads, noting the equipment, the lumber piled in numerous locations. The portable toilets and water tanks.
Getting infrastructure back in place.
Getting homes rebuilt.
Including—soon—Joel’s.
And, fuck, just his name flashing through my mind felt like a stab wound.
“Get it together,” I whispered, clenching the steering wheel, focusing on my destination and not the events of the day.
Down that way led madness.
I was Billie Rose. I was a badass. So…I got it together.
Breathed.
And drove.
Instead of downtown, I headed to the far side of River’s Bend, past the remains of the ranches where the casualties—
No. Not just casualties.
That wasn’t fair to Tom, Hank, and Eli.
That wasn’t fair to the three men who’d lost their lives.
We’d called their house phones, their cell phones. Bailey had too. But they’d been out on the hills, drinking and shooting the shit and living their slice of quiet and peaceful.
They weren’t much for tech, and we’d later discovered they hadn’t even brought their phones. We’d found them in the remains of Tom’s house, melted and tucked amongst the remains of a worn oak table I’d sat around more than once.
Eli and Tom and Hank had all sat there too, once Eli’s wife had died and Tom’s kids had moved out, getting grumpy Hank out of his house, away from the solitude caused by a lifetime of sadness—the details of which I’d never been able to get out of him.
But Tom and Eli had known or had known to leave well enough alone and not ask.
To just shut up, drink their beers, and talk about cows.
Three old guys who had bonded over life.
Three old guys who had died sitting on old logs, far from their vehicles, far from their phones and trucks and their escape routes. Maybe having drank too many beers, stopping them from attempting to get out, to run and flee, or perhaps deciding they’d lived long enough, and letting the flames come for them.
The only thing that made me feel better when I’d learned about where they died was being told by the fire marshal that they’d surely passed of smoke inhalation before the flames had burned their bodies.
I hoped for that.
Same as I hoped they’d been ready to face the sunset of life and not that they’d wanted to get out but couldn’t because they were hammered.
