Page 74 of Stuck With the Smokejumper

Russ gathers us in. “Fire's grown more than we hoped through the afternoon,” he says. “Wind's not cooperating. Resources are still working it hard. Nobody's giving up ground, but the planning assumptions have shifted.”

He pauses, and I know, somehow, before he says the next part. “It’s shifting toward Timber Creek.”

Those five words do something the rest of the briefing hasn't managed all day. My stomach drops. Timber Creek isn't an abstraction on a map to me. It's Mercer's Market and Marlene behind the register. The diner where Beck and I had lunch together. Mrs. Caldwell and her hugs. Roads I've driven a thousand times. A town that's been the backdrop of every summer I can remember.

“We'll be helping identify access and staging needs in town,” Russ continues. “Supporting whatever defensible-space work needs doing. And—” he pauses again, choosing the words carefully, “—we need to be ready to help support evacuation coordination if it comes to that.”

The crew goes quiet. This isn't an evacuation order. Russ is careful to make that clear. Nobody's telling residents to leave. This is contingency, preparation, the kind of planning experienced people do before things get bad, not because things already are.

But I know Russ well enough to understand what it means that he's planning at all.

Nolan's gone quiet beside me. Tessa's expression has shifted into something serious I don't usually see on her. Trevor's looking toward the smoke like he's trying to measure the distance by eye. Dani asks Russ a practical question about staging locations, thinking three steps ahead. I love her a little for that, for not letting the moment sit unproductively.

I think about the text I sent hours ago. We're okay. I'll keep you posted. It was true when I sent it. Technically, we're still okay right now. But the shape of okay has changed since this morning, and I don't know if Beck's gotten the message at all. I check my phone. Still nothing.

I know why. He's somewhere without service, working his own fire, and there's nothing productive in standing here worrying about whether he knows what's happening back here. He'll know when he can know. Right now there's work in front of me, and Timber Creek needs people who know this land.

I put my phone away and look toward the smoke, thicker now than it was an hour ago. This morning we were preparing because there was a fire somewhere in the district. Now we're preparing Timber Creek because someone believes the fire might reach it.

twenty-eight

Beck

We hit a stretch with actual bars for the first time in several days, and my phone lights up like it's been waiting to unload on me all at once.

Texts. Missed calls. A voicemail from a number I don't recognize. I scroll through most of it without really reading it, looking for one name, and there it is.

Ivy.

We've got a fire near the district. Blackpine mobilized this morning and more crews are coming in. We're okay. I'll keep you posted.

We're okay. Relief hits first, before my eyes drop to the timestamp.

Forty-six hours old.

I read it again like the number might change. It doesn't. She sent this almost two days ago, and she said she'd keep me posted, which means there should be another message after it. I scroll down.

Nothing.

I check again, in case I missed it somehow, some notification buried under the others. There's nothing from her after that single message. Just silence where an update should be.

I call her. It rings twice, then nothing, no voicemail, no connection at all. I try again. Same result.

Just got your message. Are you okay?

I send it, then, after a second: Call me when you can.

I stop there. I know service can drop out in that country. I know she could be working, could be somewhere with her hands full and no time to check a phone. There are a dozen reasonable explanations, but none of them do anything to quiet the part of me that keeps checking the screen anyway.

Reid notices something's wrong before I say a word.

“What is it?”

I show him the text, the timestamp, the empty space where a follow-up should be. His face changes the same way mine probably did. He's got his own phone out in seconds, checking, trying Ivy, then Russ, then, after a pause, Tessa.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Neither of us reaches for social media. We're not going to build a picture out of secondhand posts and speculation during an active incident. We ask through people who'd know, our supervisor, anyone connected to the operation who might have current information on a fire near Blackpine's district.