Page 87 of Stuck With the Smokejumper

June

“You left out the blindfold when you pitched this.”

“You would've asked questions.”

“I am asking questions.”

“Yeah. They're just less effective now.”

I shift against the seat of Beck’s truck, hands folded uselessly in my lap, entirely dependent on his driving and his word that this will be worth it. He picked me up from my place twenty minutes ago, told me he had something to show me before Sunday dinner at the Grangers', and produced the blindfold only after I was buckled in, which feels like a betrayal I'm still deciding how seriously to take.

“You do know there are laws about distracted driving.”

“I'm not distracted. You're just blind.”

“That's not comforting.”

“I'm an excellent driver.”

“You also voluntarily jump out of airplanes.”

“That feels unrelated.”

“It's extremely related.”

He laughs, and I try, uselessly, to track our route through turns and road noise, counting stop signs I can't actually confirm, losing the thread within the first five minutes. Nine years of driving these roads should count for something, but a blindfold has cancelled out most of my advantages.

Then the sound beneath the tires changes.

“We're on gravel.”

“Yes we are.”

“That wasn't a question.”

I run through the mental list of gravel roads within reasonable driving distance of home and come up with too many possibilities to narrow it down. Beck gives me nothing. A few minutes later, the truck slows, then stops, engine cutting off.

I reach for the blindfold.

“Not yet.”

I hear his door open, footsteps around the front of the truck. Then my door opens too, his hands finding mine, helping me down onto solid ground. Gravel under my shoes. Warm sun on my face, filtered through what smells like pine. A breeze. Somewhere, birds.

“Step here,” he says, guiding me carefully. “Watch this part.”

“This had better be worth it.”

“It will be.”

Then I hear it. Water, close, gentle, lapping against something.

I stop walking. “Beck.”

“What?”

“Is that water?”

“Could be.”