Page 107 of Honeyfires

"I love you," she said, her voice breaking slightly on the words.

"I love you too. I'll be home soon."

The words felt necessary. We both knew "soon" could mean anything. Could mean tonight. Could mean three days from now. Could mean never, though neither of us would say it out loud.

I kissed her forehead, then forced myself to pull away, to grab my gear bag from the closet, to walk toward the door. Every step away from her felt wrong, felt like I was leaving something vital behind.

At the door, I looked back. She was standing in the bedroom doorway, wrapped in my oversized flannel shirt, her arms hugged around herself. The sight of her like that, small and worried and mine, made my chest ache so tight it hurt.

"I'll text you when I can," I said.

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

I made myself leave. Made myself walk out of our apartment, down the stairs, out to my truck in the parking lot. The air was cool and desert-dry, full of the scent of sage. The sky was still dark, but I could see the faint glow of orange on the eastern horizon.

Not sunrise.

Fire.

I climbed into my truck, started the engine, and drove toward Station 19. Toward the helicopter waiting to take us into the heart of it. Toward the fire that was already burning out of control.

Away from Vera and safety and everything secure in my life.

Toward the only thing I knew how to do when the world was burning.

Fight a goddamn fire.

The helicopter ride to the Eagle Ridge fire was a study in controlled chaos. The Bell 212's rotors beat the air into submission, the noise a physical weight pressing against my chest even through the helmet. I sat in my position by the open door, harness clipped, watching the landscape unfold below us in the grey light of almost-dawn.

Captain Rodriguez's voice crackled through the comms. "Alves, what are we looking at?"

I leaned forward, assessing. The fire was already visible from miles out, an angry orange glow against the dark hillside, smoke rising in thick columns catching the first rays of sunlight and turning them the color of old blood.

"Crown fire," I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. "Already jumping from treetop to treetop. Heavy fuel load—looks like twenty years of drought-killed pine and juniper. Wind's gusting from the southwest, pushing it toward the residential developments on the north side of the ridge."

I could see it all from up here, the terrible mathematics of fire behavior playing out in real time. The slope of the terrain would accelerate the flames. The wind would drive them. The dry fuel would feed them. We had maybe six hours before the fire reached the first neighborhood. Maybe less.

"Spot fires?" Rodriguez asked.

I scanned the fire's perimeter, looking for the telltale sparks jumping ahead of the main body. "Negative. Not yet. But with these wind conditions, it's only a matter of time."

"Copy that. We're going in first. Cut a firebreak on the ridge, hold the line until the ground crews can establish a perimeter."

Helitack. First in, most dangerous position. The ones who rappelled into the heart of it before anyone else arrived, before the support systems were in place, before there was anything between us and the fire except skill and luck and the thin thread of rope that lowered us into hell.

I looked at Stevens sitting across from me, his face young and eager beneath his helmet, his eyes bright with the kind of enthusiasm that came from not having seen enough bad fires yet. Jackson was beside him, older, steadier, already running through mental checklists. Miller was further back, a wall of calm competence. Davids and Emerson were near the rear, keeping their distance from me like they'd been doing since the barbecue incident two weeks ago.

I pushed that thought away. Whatever tension existed on the ground had no place up here. Up here, we were a crew. Up here, nothing else mattered.

"Let's get it done," Rodriguez said, and I heard our helicopter pilot, Gomez, acknowledge, felt the aircraft bank and begin its descent toward the ridge.

The fire was beautiful and terrible from above. Flames forty feet high, maybe more, consuming everything in their path with a hunger that seemed almost alive. I'd seen fires like this before. In California. In Arizona. In places where the fuel had built up for decades and the spark finally came.

I'd also seen what happened when fires like this decided to run, and it was very possible that could happen.

If we weren’t careful, we’d never make it out of this one alive.

By hour three, we were deep in it. The firebreak was taking shape—a cleared line of earth and rock cut across the ridge, backburns eating away the fuel between us and the advancing flames. The work was brutal, physical, all chainsaw screams and shovel scrapes and the constant roar of fire filling the air like thunder that never stopped.