“Quiet,” Peanut announces from his cage, bobbing his head.
“Yeah,” I whisper to the nearly empty cabin. “Very quiet and very lonely.”
Underneath all the comings and goings, the constant hum of anxiety is making my hands shake and my stomach churn.
My phone never leaves my hand; the news runs 24/7 in the background. Every update, every bulletin, every local station covering the fire—I track them all. Five news sites sit open on my browser, refreshed again and again, as if one of them might finally tell me something new.
“—firefighter injured when a tree fell across—”
My heart stops. The report continues, but I can’t hear it over the blood rushing in my ears. Injured. Someone’s injured. Is it him? Is it Ryder? They’re not releasing names—they never do, not right away—and I’m going to lose my mind not knowing.
My phone rings. Unknown number. Dear God, is that what it feels like when armed forces people’s families getthatcall? Every terrible thing that could have happened to Ryder flies through my mind in living color as my heartbeat spikes.
I answer so fast I nearly drop it. “Hello?”
“Ms. Hillman? This is County Animal Services. We have an injured owl that was brought in from the fire zone, and we were told you sometimes take—”
I barely hear the rest. Not Ryder. Just someone asking about an owl.
“I’m sorry,” I interrupt. “No. I can’t take any more animals right now.”
I end the call and sink onto the couch, shaking.
This is unsustainable. This fear, this terror, this constant dread that the next call will be someone telling me he’s gone.
How do people do this? How do firefighters’ partners just… live with this? How do they kiss their loved ones goodbye every shift, knowing they might not come home?
I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that.
The third day brings breaking news.
“—update on the wildfire: containment efforts are progressing, but officials report three firefighters were injured in a flare-up this morning. Two have been treated and released. One remains in serious but stable condition. Names are being withheld pending family notification—”
One remains in serious but stable condition.
The words loop in my brain. One remains. Serious. Stable.
Is it him? It could be him. He hasn’t called—no cell service in the fire zone, he said—so it could absolutely be him, and I would have no way of knowing until someone shows up at my door to tell me the male I love is in a hospital somewhere, serious but stable, which is just a nice way of saying badly hurt.
I’m pacing the cabin like a caged animal when my phone finally rings.
Ryder’s name on the screen.
I answer on the first ring. “Are you hurt?”
“What?” He sounds exhausted, hoarse. “No. I’m fine. Laney, I’m fine. Did you hear someth—”
“You were in such danger, and the news doesn’t always report everything.” My voice breaks. “I thought something might have happened to you.”
“Hey. Hey, breathe. It wasn’t me. I’m okay. Tired and covered in ash, but okay.” There’s background noise, other voices. “I only have a minute before I have to report to Chief Brokka. But I wanted you to know I’m safe.”
“When are you coming back?”
Silence. Then: “We’re not done yet. The fire’s still spreading. Probably another two or three days at least.”
Two or three more days of this. Two or three more days of waiting and bracing for the worst.
I can’t do this.
