Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Hunter
I can’t fucking believe I said the thing about desert crust. Now I’m not gonna see Clementine for weeks, and the last conversation we had was an almost-argument because I’m goddamn jealous.
This is familiar, too, in the worst kind of way, because I feel like I can’t give her what she needs. She goes to conferences about bacteria and I dig holes in dirt for a living, and sometimes, it feels like there’s no way she won’t get bored with me sooner or later.
And I fucking know picking fights with her won’t help. Especially not now, but then I went and almost did it anyway, out of some terrible self-sabotaging instinct.
I head back inside, into the kitchen, where Porter’s got everyone assembled, two guys holding up the laminated map like a makeshift bulletin board. On it, the towns of Eaglevale and Coldwater are big black squares, and Porter points at them.
“These fire breaks are gonna be our first priority,” he says. “Emergency personnel have already started evacuations, but we need to save as many homes as we can...”
It feels like it takes me hours to finally fall asleep. I’m thinking about the time that I hiked into the Spires, and how hard it was even without equipment. I’m thinking about building fire breaks on rocky, steep terrain like that.
I’m thinking that maybe I should go to Clementine’s house before we leave, even though it’ll be 5:15 in the morning, and apologize, because I hate the thought of saying goodbye like this, the weight of things unsaid hanging in the air like an axe over my head.
By 4:45 a.m., nearly everyone is awake and out of bed. I’m not the only one who could barely sleep, and even though we all get dressed and prep our equipment without talking too much, the air feels charged, electric, like a spark could make everything explode.
I haul stuff outside to where the trucks are waiting. We load them, as quietly as we can, so we don’t wake anyone up. I keep looking at the house next door where Clementine lives, hoping to see a lighted window that I can take as a sign.
Her house stays dark. I load more stuff, then start checking that it’s all secured, that we’ve got everything.
Everyone mills around a little. None of us are very good at waiting, and once everything is loaded and checked and triple-checked, we stand around, kicking the sidewalk, hands in our pockets.
I look at her windows again and again. I think that maybe I should let sleeping dogs lie, and when I get back it’ll be better. We’ll talk it over then, like adults.
But then I remember our uncomfortable, stiff kiss. The way she couldn’t look at me, the way I lashed out at her for no reason, and I know I can’t say goodbye to her like that.
I turn to Silas, who’s standing next to me, lost in his own thoughts.
“I’ll be back in five minutes,” I say.
He just nods tensely. It’s hard to be about to head into a fire zone. Almost easier to just be there.
I mount Clementine’s porch steps as my phone dials her number, because I don’t want to wake her roommates if I don’t have to. The call takes a few moments to go through, and as it starts ringing, I stand on her porch, my stomach in knots, hoping she answers.
It feels like an eternity, but then the ringing stops.
“Hey,” she says softly, and her voice comes through the phone and also through the front door.
Before I can answer, it swings open, and she’s standing there, her phone up to her ear.
“Oh,” she says, still talking into the phone.
“Surprise,” I say into mine, and she smiles, closing her door behind her.
“I was about to come say goodbye,” she says, keeping her voice low, clicking her phone off.
She looks away, at the trucks with the guys standing around.
“I didn’t want to leave things like we did,” she starts, then pauses.
“I’m sorry I was an asshole,” I blurt out. “It’s the same bullshit. I can do better.”
Clementine just looks surprised. She pushes her bangs off her forehead.
“Me too,” she finally says. “I can be petty and jealous and insecure, and...”
She shuffles her feet against the porch floor.
“And I don’t really like that about myself,” she finishes.
“I don’t want to be away from you,” I say. “I wish there was a third option, to have this job but come home at night.”
She smiles faintly.
“I don’t care if you don’t know what cryptobiotic crust is,” she says. “You’ve never bored me, which is more than I can say for most people.”
I step forward and put my arms around her.
“This was stupid,” I say.
“Yeah,” she agrees. “I promise to never have stupid feelings again.”
I just laugh, and so does she.
“Same,” I say.
Behind me, I hear a truck start, and I turn my head. The guys are milling around with slightly more purpose, and even though a few of them glance over, they look away quickly, like they’re faintly embarrassed.
“You should go,” Clementine says.
I kiss her, and this time it feels normal, her lips firm but yielding under mine, her arms tight around me. A proper goodbye kiss.
We separate and I kiss her forehead.
“I’ll call you when I can,” I say.
“Wait,” she says, and reaches into her pocket. She holds up a small, smooth, gray rock.
“We’ve already got plenty of ways to start a fire,” I say. “We’re not actual cavemen.”
Clementine rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.
“It’s from the waterfall,” she says. “Just fucking take it and think nice thoughts about me once in a while.”
She puts it in my hand, small and heavy, warm from being in her pocket.
“Can I think nice thoughts about you a lot?” I ask.
“Don’t go overboard,” she teases.
“Like when I’m alone in my tent, and I’m dead tired but still too wired to sleep—”
Another truck starts behind me, and we both turn to look at it.
“Yes, you can jerk off thinking about me,” Clementine laughs, then kisses me before I can respond.
“Did that anyway,” I say.
“Go,” she says, pushing me toward the porch steps. “I don’t wanna hear that Eaglevale burned down because one of the fire crew wouldn’t quit talking to his girlfriend.”
I grin, kiss her hand, and head down the steps.
Minutes later we’re driving out of Lodgepole, the sky just barely starting to lighten at the eastern edge, the truck silent. Daniel and I are in the back seat, Silas in the front as we head north.
Daniel turns to me.
“Clementine’s nice,” he says.
“Yeah, she seemed cool,” Silas says from the front.
“Thanks,” I say.
We fall quiet again.
The whole way up, we listen to reports from the people already in Eaglevale — a few forest rangers, the Ashlake Volunteer Fire Department. They’re bad, the Saturn Fire’s bigger and faster than anyone predicted.
We should have left earlier, maybe even yesterday, and the feeling that I was in Lodgepole eating Italian food and laughing with Clementine gnaws at me.
Logically, I know that fires are nearly impossible to predict, and that everyone always does their best, but deep down, the thought that someone might lose their home because I wasn’t fast enough is hard to shake.
We all ride along in tense silence, listening to slightly staticky voices talk about the Saturn Fire making its way down the canyon, watching the smoke billow out of the forest north of us.
The air gets a little thicker, and the mountains in the distance have a dull haze in front of them, the sickly yellow color of wood putty. Bits of ash collect on the ground. When the sun comes up it’s a dull, glowing, nuclear orange, and as it rises it becomes a blood-red ball in the sky.
Heading toward a fire always feels apocalyptic, almost like I’m in a movie where society has broken down and everyone lives in cars in the desert or something.
The light is always the color of sunset, even if it’s seven o’clock in the morning, and it makes the primal, instinctual part of my brain whisper it’s nearly dark, it’s nearly dark all day.
I thought I’d get used to it after the first few times, but I never did. I guess humans aren’t wired that way.
As we get close, helicopter and drop planes start buzzing overhead, more and more often. The flame retardant powder they drop combines with the smoke and turns everything a little redder. It feels a little more like the end of the world. It feels like that every time, but the end hasn’t come yet.
The truck doesn’t even stop in Eaglevale. A ranger wearing a big hat and an orange safety vest just waves us past some sort of checkpoint, and we head down a rough road and into the canyon. We drive until the road runs out, and then we park behind the other Canyon Country Hotshot trucks.
No one talks much as we load up with our gear. I think we all feel the same way right now, the buzz and excitement of last night gone, traded in for a grim determination about the task ahead.
The first thing we have to do is hike down a tricky trail, carrying seventy pounds of equipment: drip torches, rhinos, chainsaws, plus food and water. Once we get there, then we get to actually start work.
Another truck pulls up behind us. Guys pile out. I double check that I’ve got everything, that it’s all firmly strapped to my back.
I run my fingertips over the rock Clementine gave me, safe in a small zippered pocket, and for a moment I let myself think about tossing her into the pool, about lying with her on a warm rock in the sun and teasing her about male strippers.
Then we get moving.