Every wildland firefighter carries a fire shelter—a last-resort survival tool made of aluminum foil and fiberglass, designed to reflect radiant heat and trap breathable air. Training drills for deployment are routine, but using one in real life is what every firefighter dreads.
My hands tremble as I grab the shelter from my pack. Around me, my squad and the other firefighters are doing the same, a choreographed dance of desperation.
I shake out the folded sheet, the lightweight material unfurling. We clear a perimeter of bare ground. Discarding my tools, I drop to my knees, pull the shelter over my body, and press myself flat against the earth. I secure the edges with my hands and feet, sealing in what little breathable air is left.
And then I wait.
The world shrinks to the confines of my small silver cocoon, the light filtering through the material taking on an eerie amber glow. The temperature rises immediately—the shelter reflects heat, but it’s not perfect. Sweat pours down my face, stinging my eyes. Muffled sounds from my fellow firefighters filter through the barrier: labored breathing, a cough, someone muttering what might be a prayer.
The noise outside intensifies, the fire’s roar becoming deafening as the main front approaches. The ground beneath me vibrates with its power. I press my face closer to the dirt, searching for cooler air to breathe as the temperature continues to climb.
And I think of Lily.
Of the careful space she’s kept between us, the walls she never lets down, and how I’d give anything just to see her smile without that shadow in her eyes. I picture her face when she laughs—really laughs, with her head thrown back and that little snort she tries to hide. How she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating. The way she watches Penny, with such fierce love that makes me wish I could get even a drop of that affection from her.
And Penny, with her constant curiosity, spinning around the living room like a ballerina one minute, elbows-deep in tools the next—never afraid of getting her hands dirty.
They’re not mine to claim. I know this. But they’ve become mine to care about, to worry over, to plan my days around. And now, trapped in this silver bubble with death literally breathing down my neck, I’m struck by the enormity of what I stand to lose.
If I die today, how will Lily hear the news? This time it won’t be from an officer showing up at her door. We’re not officially anything. She might see it on TV, hear it on the radio, or get a text from someone at the station. She’ll have to explain to Penny why Josh isn’t coming over anymore. What will it do to her?
The shelter shudders as a gust of superheated air passes over it. A branch crashes nearby. I press down harder, refusing to let the wind get underneath the fabric.
“Not today,” I mutter through gritted teeth. “Not like this.”
Because I need to get back to them and to tell Lily that I’m in love with her, even if she’s not ready to hear it.
The ground shakes as a tree explodes somewhere close by, the sound muffled by my flimsy barrier. The heat is unbearable now. My lungs strain for oxygen in the thin, hot air.
Time loses meaning. It could be minutes or hours that I lie with my face pressed to the dirt, hands clenched around the edges of my shelter. The world outside is hellfire and chaos, but in my mind, I’m with Lily and Penny—at the beach, at the dinner table, by the pool. Safe. Together. It’s a dream I hold on to, even as the strength weeps out of my body, dripping to the ground faster than my sweat and tears.
25
LILY
I’ve just finished patching up a patient with a broken leg when the first burn victim arrives. Two paramedics barrel in, pushing a gurney. The smell hits me first—that unmistakable stench of charred fabric and burned flesh—and my stomach drops before I even see the patient. A young woman, barely conscious, with most of her visible skin blistered and blackened. What’s left of her T-shirt is scorched at the edges, melted into her wounds in places. Her face is the only part unscathed, though her eyebrows are singed and her lips cracked from heat.
My hands freeze at my sides. My brain fills with useless questions: Was she trapped in a house? Did someone pull her out? How long was she surrounded by flames? Who saved her?
Where is Josh?
The thought crashes into me, a painful twisting pang inside me that makes my vision blur.
Dr. Chen is already moving toward the trauma bay, barking orders. “Lily! We need you now!”
The callout snaps me back to reality. I blink the anxiety away and force my feet to move, my brain to focus.
I pull on fresh gloves and start an IV. I get the fluids running, monitors beeping. But the monster clawing at my chest doesn’t go away. A prickling heat burns under my skin—that old, familiar dread I had forgotten. My thoughts scatter, flickering back to Josh every few seconds, wondering if he was anywhere near the hell that caused this.
I push the worry down and focus on the task at hand.
We’ve barely stabilized the woman when the doors swing open again. This time it’s a man clutching a toddler to his chest, both of their faces streaked with soot. The child’s hair is singed at the ends, and the father’s eyes are wild with panic.
Right behind them, a firefighter limps through the doors, supported by his partner. His arm is wrapped in a makeshift bandage already soaked through with blood, while sweat carves rivers through the grime on his face.
My heart leaps into my throat for a second, but the firefighter is not Josh. I don’t know whether to be relieved or more terrified.
“Multiple burn victims coming in,” a voice announces over the intercom. “All available personnel to the ER. Initiating MCI protocol.”
