Page 54 of Stuck With the Smokejumper

“I like that plan.”

“Me too.”

Five more days. It's the first real number we’ve had since I left, something solid. We've made it almost a week. A communication blackout that could have gone badly, that could have turned into something either of us held against the other. Instead we're both still vested counting down toward Friday instead of counting reasons to doubt us.

Reid taps his watch, mouthing something about the briefing in ten minutes.

“I've got a briefing,” I say.

“It’s okay. I know you’re working.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Five days,” she says.

“Five days.”

We hang up. I lower the phone and look out at Granite Creek, smoke still hanging low over the ridgeline, crews still working. A minute ago I had an entire kitchen in my ear. Ivy. Annie asking if I was eating enough. Dani telling me about Mabel sleeping on my bed. Cassidy's quiet victory. Nolan, still not over the pie contest. Russ checking that we were doing all right. Even Reid, somewhere behind me, listening the whole time.

All the sounds of a life waiting for me back in Timber Creek.

Out here, standing in the ash and the noise of an incident that isn't finished yet, I miss it. Obviously Ivy, but the rest of it too. That house full of people who've decided, somewhere along the way, that I’m part of it. Part of them.

I've spent most of my life being good at this. Arriving somewhere new, settling in fast, leaving without much trouble when the assignment ends. One temporary place after another. I've never minded the leaving because there was never anywhere I minded leaving.

I don't have a name yet for whatever's happening. But something's different, and I know it, standing here at the edge of a fire, thinking about people I haven't seen in a week like they’re the only thing worth thinking about.

Friday finally arrives.

We're released a few hours ahead of schedule, staffing catching up enough Elk Ridge doesn't need us through the afternoon shift after all. Reid and I load our gear into the truck without much conversation, both of us running on a mix of exhaustion and momentum that comes at the end of a long assignment.

“We could stop at that place,” Reid says, about twenty minutes in, nodding at a sign for some roadside attraction.

“No.”

“You don't even know what I was going to say.”

“Does it add time?”

He considers this with more seriousness than the question deserves. “Probably.”

“Then no.”

He tries again an hour later, at a scenic overlook. My response is the same. Somewhere around the halfway point he glances at the clock and does some quick math.

“We're already three hours early.”

“Good.”

“Ivy isn't even going to be there. She'll be out working.”

“I know.”

He grins at me. “Just making sure we're clear on why I'm not getting to sightsee.”

I don't bother denying it. He's right, and there's no point pretending otherwise. We'll get to the crew house before Ivy does, and I still want every mile of this drive to go faster than it's going.

“You tell her we're arriving early?” Reid asks.