17. Kael
KAEL
Sharon steps back, clapping, as I lift the chainsaw with a firmer grip.
Starting it felt almost like cranking Gram’s old push mower, right up until the vibrations slammed up my arms and shook that memory out of me.
That mower took three passes to cut damp grass; this thing feels like it could chew through bone.
It’s dangerous, too loud, unfamiliar, and the only hope we’ve got.
The chainsaw’s high-pitched whine fills the air. I lower it to the first branch, and it eats through the wood with shocking ease, the scent of fresh-cut pine briefly overpowering the smoke.
Ash grabs the severed branch and tosses it aside. With his eyebrows making a horizontal line that wrinkles his forehead, his face mirrors the surprise in my chest. Without speaking, we fall into a rhythm of me cutting and him hauling, like we’ve done this a hundred times.
It’s awkward at first. The saw bucks and snarls, but the branches fall fast. Sawdust rains like sand-colored snow. With every cut, we clear more chaos from the road, working our way toward the thick trunk that stands between us and getting out.
The fire rages, scorching the roadside as a living beast hungrily eating its way toward us.
“Be careful!” Ash says, handing me a pair of scratched, smudged safety glasses from the truck bed.
I nod and face the trunk we’ve cut our way to approach. It’s me versus this wall of wood. With every ounce of focus a chainsaw rookie can muster, I dig in. The engine crackles against the silence of the woods. It kicks once, nearly wrenching free, but I clamp down and adjust.
The cuts aren’t pretty, but they don’t need to be. With each pass, the fallen tree starts to yield. Ash hauls chunks of trunk aside, widening our gap and our odds. I blink away sweat, pause to wipe my brow, and keep going.
The air grows darker and hotter as the fire edges closer.
Ash points to a spot on the trunk he thinks is wide enough for us to squeeze through, and we work toward it until one final cut drops the last section onto the road with a heavy thud. We both heave it onto its side and roll it down the slope, away from the flames.
Exhausted, I finally kill the chainsaw. Ash claps me on the back, and I welcome how his hand lingers just a little too long.
Surveying what’s left, I take in the two rough halves where a single barrier used to be. The space emptied by the chainsaw’s whine is now full of fragile hope that the gap we’ve carved is wide enough.
No time to admire anything. We sprint back to the truck.
Ash shuts Walt’s door. Walt is still slumped in the passenger seat, breathing shallow and fast, eyes glassy and unfocused. He’s gone pale from what I guess is heatstroke, smoke inhalation, or shock. Whatever it is, it’ll have to wait.
We climb into the bed, and our knees bump as we brace ourselves against the cab. I wedge the chainsaw into a corner and keep my leg pressed to Ash’s, neither of us acknowledging the contact.
“I’m gonna punch it through!” Sharon calls.
The truck lurches, fishtailing on the carpet of wood chips, flames licking too close to the driver’s side. I brace for the crunch of steel on wood, the snap of miscalculation….
But Ash’s estimate holds.
We clear the gap.
“YES!” I shout, fist thrust to the sky, every muscle trembling from effort and adrenaline.
Ash tries cheering, but his smile falters.
As we barrel down the mountain, color turns to streaks of bright flame, dark smoke, and, slowly, more green than orange. The smell of living pine strengthens. Gray plumes shrink back into something that looks distant again. Not far, but far enough for now.
“We made it,” I say. Relief rushes through my chest, snipping the marionette strings that have held me tight all day. “I can’t believe we made it.”
But Ash is sobbing, and for the first time in my life I feel strong enough to help.
I put a hand on his shaking shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”
“But my phone—” He swallows a gasp. “I almost killed us. For fucking job applications.”
“You told me to set my alarm. I didn’t. We share the blame.” I wrap an arm around him, and he folds into me hard enough to remind me how solid he is. My hand finds the back of his head without thinking, fingers weaving through sweat-damp hair as I murmur, “We made it. Okay? You’re okay.”
We ride like that for a long time, his arms clinging to me while the danger slowly recedes behind us.
His sobbing eases too, a storm thinning to drizzle and then to nothing, until all that’s left between us is something quiet and heavy.
When he finally pulls away, I miss the weight of him immediately.
More than that, I miss the strange rush of having someone built like Ash lean on me and finding out I can take it.
I could get used to that feeling.
Ash keeps one hand in mine, like he’s afraid to let go, and I squeeze back.
The first sign of civilization is a small, still lake ringed with a strip of golden sand, so peaceful it feels absurd after everything behind us. We rattle past red-and-white barricades blocking the road, and Sharon finally eases off the gas.
“Paradise,” I say, managing a weak smile.
The sky is startlingly blue, and normal air feels so fresh and cool that I lift my free hand in a wordless gesture of relief. Ash’s hand, still clasped in mine, lifts with it, and a whoop escapes me before I can stop it.
Some of the darkness leaves his face. He smiles through red-rimmed eyes, and for one reckless second I can’t stop myself from wondering what it would feel like to kiss him, right here with smoke still behind us and his hand still locked in mine.
It almost makes me forget that my life is its own ongoing disaster, wildfire or no wildfire.
We both start laughing instead, cracked open by relief so sudden it almost feels unhinged. The warmth of it lingers, especially where our fingers are still laced together.
Hill’s Country Store is the first building we pass, a lone gas pump beneath an illuminated OPEN sign buzzing in the window. A short line of cars snakes toward the pump, hinting that something’s off, but Paradise is still paradise compared to what we’ve escaped.
The narrow mountain road widens into a main street bordered by empty sidewalks. Evacuated Paradise is a ghost town, but it’s a new one with bright lane paint, unfaded road signs, fresh landscaping, and clean, empty parking lots.
By the time Sharon turns onto a residential street, it looks like we’ve driven out of danger and into another world entirely. When she finally pulls to a stop, I half expect the ground to feel different.
“This is it,” she says through the rolled-down window, one hand still braced on Walt’s shoulder as he breathes shallowly beside her. “Home.”