“It’s late.You drove all day.”
“I’m not tired,Kätzchen.”
“Liar.”
He chuckled.“Ja, OK.A little tired.But hearing your voice is better than sleep.”
My cheeks burned.I pressed my cool palm against one, feeling the heat beneath my skin.“Goodnight, Oktober.”
“Gute Nacht, Mia.I’ll call tomorrow night.”
“You don’t have to --”
“Tomorrow night,” he repeated, firm and certain, and hung up before I could argue.
I set the phone down and sat in the silent cabin, my chest full of something warm and terrifying.This wasn’t how I operated.I didn’t organize my day around another person’s phone calls.Or feel like a lovesick teenager.
Except I did.All of it.
The terrifying part was how little I cared.
The next day dawned all wrong, though I couldn’t have told you why at first.I carried my coffee to the porch the way I had every morning since I got here, settled into the Adirondack chair, and drew my knees to my chest.The lake spread before me, but though the sun shone bright, the wind had picked up the night before and now a warm wind gusted through the trees and created ripples on the water.The birds sang their usual songs.But the air held something foreign, a faint grit that I tasted more than smelled, like someone had rubbed a pencil eraser between the roof of my mouth and my tongue.
I squinted at the far shore.The tree line looked soft, as though someone had breathed on a photograph and smudged the edges from what was likely the morning mist.Except the air felt dry, not wet and humid with the moisture in the air coming from the lake.I sipped my coffee and watched the surface of the water nearly white cap with the wind.
By nine, the mist hadn’t lifted at all.If anything, the haze had thickened, lending the sunlight a flat, diffused quality that stripped the landscape of its usual sharp contrasts.The mountains across the lake, which normally stood in crisp relief against the sky, had retreated behind a veil of pale gray that softened their ridgelines into suggestions rather than certainties.I thought I got a faint whiff of smoke, but I couldn’t be sure.My imagination always got the better of me.
I spent the morning packing.Not with urgency, the plan had been to leave tomorrow anyway.I’d be ready so I could head out first thing.
Between tasks, I returned to the porch.Each time, the haze had advanced.By noon, the far shore had vanished entirely behind a curtain of yellowish gray, and the acrid undertone I’d noticed at dawn had sharpened into the unmistakable scent of smoke.Not the friendly woodsmoke of a campfire or the controlled char of a barbecue, but something wilder and more insistent -- the bitter tang of burning pine sap and dry brush carried on air that should have been crisp and clean.
I stood at the porch railing, studying the sky.The sun had taken on a strange, coppery appearance, its edges blurred and reddened as though filtering through stained glass.
Inside, I opened my laptop on the kitchen table and searched for local news.The results loaded slowly on the cabin’s weak Wi-Fi, each page rendering in stuttered increments that tested my patience.I found what I was looking for on the third link.
WILDFIRE REPORTED IN MOUNTAIN RIDGE AREA --
FIRE CREWS RESPOND
The article, updated two hours ago, detailed a fire that had started the previous afternoon roughly twelve miles northeast of the cabin rental property.A lightning strike in dry timber, exacerbated by unusually high winds gusting from the northeast started a fast-moving fire.I searched further but didn’t find anything.So I called the number I’d been given for maintenance for the cabin rental.According to the answering service, there was no danger from wildfire to my area at present.I exhaled, unaware I’d been holding my breath.The facts assembled themselves into a reassuring narrative, and I accepted it because accepting it was easier than the alternative.
I leaned back in the kitchen chair, pressing my fingers to my temples.The headache I’d been nursing since morning had worsened, a dull pressure behind my eyes that I attributed to the smoke-tinged air and insufficient water intake.I drained a full glass, then another, and felt marginally better.
I stepped back onto the porch, determined to enjoy my last afternoon despite the degraded air quality.The lake had taken on an eerie beauty in the filtered light, its surface reflecting the smoky sky in muted silvers and golds.Tiny flecks of ash drifted down like gray snow, so sparse they might have been imagined if I hadn’t watched one land on the porch railing and crumble to a dark smear beneath my fingertip.
I wiped my hand on my jeans and frowned at the smudge it left.The wind, which had been still all morning, picked up in a sudden gust that rattled the pine boughs overhead and sent a fresh wave of smoke scent washing across the porch.Stronger now.More immediate.To the northeast, above the tree line, the sky had darkened to a sunset-orange.I watched the sky for a long moment, then turned and went inside.I had packing to finish.I had a phone call to look forward to tonight.And tomorrow morning, I would drive away from this place and back to Nashville and to Oktober and to whatever life was assembling itself from the unlikely materials of the past week.
After I finished packing, I poured a glass of wine and sat on the couch and picked up my book.Maybe I’d have better luck with the story now.Outside, the wind pushed against the cabin walls with growing insistence, and the light through the windows continued its slow, sickly transformation from gold to copper to the color of a wound.
Oktober’s call came right on schedule, just as what you could see of the sun through the haze of the sun dissipated behind a mountain.I answered with the smile already on my face, curled on the couch with my wine glass balanced on the armrest and the abandoned book face down on the cushion beside me.
“Hey, you,” I said, and the warmth in my own voice surprised me.A week ago, I wouldn’t have recognized the woman who answered a phone call sounding so soft, open, and eager to talk to the person on the other end.Even if it had been Eric or Jade.
“Kätzchen.”His voice held its usual rumble, but something beneath it snagged my attention.A tautness, like a wire pulled one turn too tight.“How was your day?”
“Good.Quiet.I packed most of my things.”I took a sip of wine.“Oh, and there’s apparently a wildfire somewhere in the mountains.I noticed the haze this morning.It’s about twelve miles away, but they say it’s moving away from the rentals, so nothing to worry about.”The silence that followed lasted three heartbeats too long.
“What fire?”His accent thickened on the vowels, the way it did when emotion overrode his careful English.“Where exactly?How far from your cabin?”
