He saved me for last.
“Fuel duty,” he calls over his shoulder, then breaks apartwith the rest of the guys to get to work. I expected toilet paper duty at this point, so I’ll take it.
Of the four side compartments on the vehicle, the two that hug the back end carry Siggs—twenty-ounce red metal bottles of fuel made for saws. I slide a couple dozen small MSR-made tanks into the pipes that hold them and the corresponding bar oil beneath. With the fuel properly loaded, I double-check my own line pack. The government-issued bottles in the side pockets are still empty.
I jog to the kitchen and fill five liters of water and add two Gatorades from the fridge. I won’t make the same mistake twice.
“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” I hear Jack yell from the parking lot. “We’ve got fifty miles to cover on a thirty-mile-an-hour road. That’s an hour forty minutes for you loiterers to dink around.” He slides behind the wheel with Murphy in the passenger seat.
I’ve managed to leave it turned off for days now, but I fish out my phone to check my messages on the drive. Several sets of work boots clank against a metal strip running down the aisle as the guys pile on by rank. We all shove our line packs in the mesh-covered compartments overhead and plop down into one of four rows of dual black leather seats. As the newest recruit, I’m at the very back with Ramirez. But I’m not complaining. The view of a certain ambulance out the back window is all I was hoping to see.
Mere minutes down the road, the buggy is a party bus of noise. The clang of heavy metal tools on board, the grate of shoe soles on the rough floor, the shout of conversations as they compete to be heard, and Ramirez, my seatmate, who is belting Beyoncé lyrics four feet from my ear drums.
A pounding pulses behind my eyes, and I don’t know if it’s the lingering aftereffects of dehydration or the dread of turning on the phone cradled in my lap. I still don’t want to think aboutseeing Miles and Teddy on Instagram. When it powers on, one unread text message shows up. I tap on the green icon and a phone number I don’t recognize flags at the top.
Hi. How’s that head feeling?the message says, and I sweep the buggy for the guy who’s messing with me. No one has their phone out but Ramirez, and even he has his eyes closed, head tipped back as he warbles another verse.
I glance through the back window and find Hailey watching her lap.Was it her?There’s only one way to find out.
How’d you get this number?I type. Seconds later, three dots pop up in the bottom corner, float there, and disappear with a new message.
It’s my duty as EMT to make sure my patient is feeling up for this, it reads.
A grin splits across my face. I try to peek out the back window again, but the glass has fogged over from Ramirez’s passionate lungs.Man, he’s into it.
I swipe an arc of condensation with my forearm.
REED: You know, you could have just asked me for my number instead of stealing it from your dad’s office.
She smiles at her lap.
HAILEY: Now where’s the fun in that. You didn’t answer my question.
REED: Well, you’re coming, so I’m going to be perfectly fine. How’s it going back there?
HAILEY: Ben keeps asking if I’d like a drink from his thermos. What are the chances it’s filled with 99 percent creamer?
REED: Proceed at your own risk.
HAILEY: What about you? Dean killed you yet?
REED: McCafferty couldn’t kill a fish if he caught one by accident. But I could use a game of 20 Questions to pass the time. Ramirez is singing “All the Single Ladies,” and it smells like feet in here. Interested?
His voice jumps up and down as the rattle trap buggy traverses a long stretch of gravel—Warren Wagon Road.
HAILEY: You poor thing. Sure, I’m in.
REED: Planner or spontaneous?
A part of me hopes she’ll say spontaneous, but the way she clung to that safety manual on the plane… I’m going to say planner.
HAILEY: 100% planner. Stay up or sleep in?
Thought so.
REED: This is a no-brainer. Stay up.
But I imagine it. What it would be like if sleeping in meant having her in my arms. I’m not sure I’d ever want to leave that bed.
