My throat tightens, but I push on. “That’s why we named our daughter Penny, because Daniel and I both believed in tiny signs and the magic of feeling lucky with the people you love.”
I glance past the flames into the woods. “It sounds silly now, but we wanted Penny to have the same sense of being found if she ever got lost.”
As I finish, the air becomes heavier with what I’m not adding—how Daniel’s luck eventually ran out.
Josh must be thinking the same thing because he reaches for my hand, offering comfort without words. His palm is warm against mine, callused from work but gentle in how it cradles my fingers. The touch sends a steady current up my arm that both soothes and terrifies me. It makes me want to hold on forever and let go as fast as I can.
But tonight, I let myself have the contact. At least for a bit.
Josh squeezes my hand. “It’s a beautiful name, with a beautiful story.”
“Yeah.”
After a stretch of weighty stillness, I make myself break the connection, pulling my hand from Josh’s as I get up. He stands too, and for a second we’re standing too close, nearly chest to chest, the fire’s glow flickering across his face.
Josh hesitates, lifting his hand as if he’s about to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, or cup my cheek, but he catches himself, letting his arm fall to his side. Our eyes hold for a beat too long—charged, uncertain, andhungry.
Iamstarving, but I can’t allow myself even a small taste, or I might not stop. “We should get some sleep.”
Josh nods, but doesn’t move. I’m the one to step away, every nerve jangling. As I zip up my tent, I hear him sigh—a frustrated, longing sound—and know I’ll lie awake for hours, painfully aware of every what-if the night holds.
24
JOSH
Two Months Later
I’m halfway through checking the engine’s inventory when the call comes. The dispatcher’s voice cuts through the station’s routine morning hum, terse and clipped. “Brush fire north of La Cañada, crews requested to assist, immediate mobilization.” My hand freezes on the compartment latch. November in California means the hills are as dry as matchsticks. We’ve been expecting this call for weeks, watching the humidity drop and the Santa Anas pick up. The station erupts into motion around me.
“Let’s roll!” I shout, slamming the compartment shut and striding toward the truck. My squad is already moving. Martinez, Diaz, and Brett scramble into action with the efficiency of men who’ve done this a thousand times. And they have, but this is my first wildfire.
Adrenaline pumps through my veins, turning urgency into focus as boots thud against concrete, radios crackle with updates, and gear bags hit the floor with dull thuds as they’re loaded.
Four months in LA, and this is my first real emergency. I’ve been dreading it and craving it in that twisted way only firefighters understand.
We’re suited up and in the truck in under two minutes, the engine roaring to life as we pull out of the bay, sirens wailing. I get more details over the radio. The fire originated through several lightning strikes deep in Angeles National Forest. Multiple spot fires are converging, with the wind pushing the flames toward developed areas.
“How bad?” Diaz asks from behind me.
“Bad enough they’re calling in everyone,” I reply, eyes fixed on the road as Martinez navigates the mid-morning traffic that parts for our sirens. “County, forest service, mutual aid from neighboring departments.”
Martinez makes the sign of the cross, a gesture he repeats before every serious call. Brett stares out the window, face set in that blank mask he wears when he’s preparing. They’re good men, my squad. Still getting used to me as their lieutenant, but the past four months have forged something that, if not friendship, is at least solid professional respect.
As we race up the freeway, the sky ahead transforms. The clear blue morphs into a dirty smudge, then a roiling mass of brown-gray smoke that hangs like an apocalyptic curtain over the mountains. Sunlight filters through it in an eerie orange glow that turns the landscape alien and threatening.
“Fuck,” Brett mutters, breaking his silence. “That’s a monster.”
He’s not wrong. Even from miles away, it’s easy to tell the fire is moving fast, fed by bone-dry brush and pushed by the gusting winds. The raging inferno is nothing like anything I’ve faced before.
We reach the staging area—a high school parking lot already crammed with emergency vehicles—and report to the Incident Commander, a grizzled Cal Fire captain with weathered leathery skin and eyes that must’ve seen too many fires to count.
“Squad 27,” he acknowledges, glancing at a tablet. “You’re with Strike Team Bravo. Structure protection on Descanso Drive, then I need you on the line.” He points to the map spread across the hood of his command vehicle. “Fire’s making a run at these homes. Winds are pushing it southwest now, but we’ve got a front moving in that could shift direction. Be ready.”
I memorize the map, nodding. “Yes, sir.”
He gives me a hard look. “First California wildfire, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir.”
