8. Ash
ASH
Every breath stings my lungs as we race around the lake’s uneven perimeter. Pines rush by, their silhouettes flickering warnings we should’ve noticed hours ago.
Kael glances back, face steady in his white hoodie. He hadn’t cared about my protests, the hike, or the lost signal. Naturally, even his body’s indifferent to sprinting, like he’s being styled by a breeze instead of outrunning a wildfire.
I, on the other hand, am wiping sweat out of my eyes and trying not to wheeze.
I knot my jacket around my waist to get it off my overheating shoulders, and in the process make myself look exactly like what I am: a panicking idiot who should’ve paid attention sooner and is, apparently, less cardio-fit than he thought.
They wouldn’t leave without me. Without us.
Forty minutes of frantic jogging finally dumps us back into the dirt parking lot.
What had been a breathtaking place to arrive for a relaxing retreat is now just… empty. Rows and rows of vacant spaces. Even the dust we’d seen kicked up by urgent departures has settled. The only thing left is a lone, wood-paneled Buick.
“It’s dead,” Kael says, slamming his door.
“Shit!”
My curse ricochets off the glass-still lake. I jog uselessly between the rows, scanning empty spaces in case I might’ve missed a whole car while blinking.
“You tried it?” I ask. “I’ll call the organizer.”
“Yes, I tried it,” he says, like I’m the problem for asking, not the guy who forgot to mention his car was dead in the first place.
I yank out my phone and find two emails from the organizers. I reply to the one confirming my speaking slot with a single, desperate line: You left Ash and Kael behind. Please help.
The other email is titled, with horrible irony, “The FIRE Escape” and sent from noreply@.
Living in California has instilled a deep respect for wildfires. They move fast. Faster than feels possible. With each passing minute, every news image of orange skies and burning ridgelines crowds closer.
Kael jogs up beside me, his glasses magnifying the fear in his eyes, lenses catching the emptiness behind me into a warped reflection of how alone we are.
“What now?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit, spinning in a half circle, expending useless energy trying to swallow that simple truth before it chokes me. “But… they can’t just leave us.”
“You were the speaker,” Kael says, a thin edge of accusation under the words.
“Exactly,” I shoot back. “They should be looking for me.”
We stare at each other. Sweat runs into my eyes. I swipe it away with a shaking hand. We’ve stopped running, but my brain is still circling the lake, the blue sky, the trees, the dead Buick, the empty lot, the impetuous artist, and the unseen fire getting closer.
“It’s… unbelievable,” I say. The weight of the last twenty-four hours piles against my chest.
Kael nods. “I know.”
“Oh, do you? Do you know?” Heat surges to my ears. It’s not just Kael, it’s Chase, the HR meeting, and my numbers collapsing one spreadsheet cell at a time.
“Excuse me?”
“You were all charm and chaos,” I say, the words coming faster now. “Of course it was going to fall apart.”
Kael sneers. “Sure. It’s my fault.”
The word fault snaps something, and suddenly I’m back at Query, listening to Chase stammer about how my career caving in wasn’t really on him.
“We never should’ve gone hiking,” I snap. “I told you we should turn back.”
“What?” he huffs.
“So like me to cozy up to another self-destructive trainwreck.”
Kael presses a hand to his chest. “Forgive me for injecting one ounce of fun into your miserable ‘future-focused’ life.”
I don’t engage with that, but one joyless syllable scrapes out of me. “And for five hundred dollars,” I add. “Hell of a bargain.”
“Nobody knew a wildfire would spring up miles away!”
The magnetic artist is gone, replaced by someone reckless enough to get me stranded and too proud to admit it.
“You’re self-indulgent, impulsive, and irresponsible,” I shout.
“You’re selfish, boring, and exactly what I thought you’d be,” he fires back.
Without another word, he storms off down the trail toward the fieldhouse. A bad choice, given the main road is our best shot at being seen. Yet there he goes, stomping away from the obvious path because his feelings are hurt.
“Where are you going?” I call, jogging to catch up.
“Fire’s north,” Kael says, stabbing a finger across the lake. “You go that direction. I’m going south.”
“We should walk down the road.”
“I’m getting water,” he snaps, not slowing. “Maybe there’s someone at the fieldhouse. And who knows how long we’ll be out here? I’m not about to die of dehydration.”
“No, we’re about to die in a fire,” I mutter. “Though water’s actually a good idea, with the parking lot empty, I doubt—” Fighting about logistics won’t help. “Fine. Go and get water. Great. Then can we please try the road? At least there’s a chance someone will see us.”
“That’s literally what I’m doing. So you’re… following me?”
“I’m saying you had a good idea, and I’m improving it,” I tell him. “We’re riffing. Yes-and-ing.”
His eyes go wide, and he actually recoils.
“Oh God,” he groans. “You do improv. And I thought you couldn’t get any worse.”
“I don’t do improv!” I protest. “I did improv. Once. At an offsite.”
It was fun. Useful, even.
“If you weren’t such an asshole, someone might feel sorry for you,” he mutters.
“And if you weren’t so careless, we might not be here at all.” My anger burns out on the last word, memory flickering back to me literally tripping over him on the trail. Neither of us asked for this. “Like it or not, we’re in this together.”
Kael pauses, thumb and forefinger pressing his chin like he’s giving it serious thought. He looks ridiculously dramatic. Ridiculously handsome. It’s ridiculously annoying that I notice.
Then he delivers his verdict with one word.
“Not.”