Page 15 of Smoke Season

God, could Sam even risk Annie in this air for the length of time it would take to buckle her into the SUV? And what about Mel, on the front lines?Herlungs couldn’t exactly afford to be exposed to that level of smoke inhalation, either, given what she put them through on the regular.

He rubbed a hand down the rough stubble on his face, unsure of just about everything. Astor banged on the glass of the upstairs window, making him jump, and Sam came back inside, trying to pass his worry off as wonderment. “If it weren’t summer, it’d be like a snow day today!” he said entirely too brightly.

Astor only frowned, shifting from foot to foot in her neon-dog-and-cat-print nightshirt. Sam wished the girls had been able to sleep in this morning, spared Sam’s restless energy as he lapped the apartment. Like one of the opossums his old man used to trap under their house growing up, poor bastards.

When he came back into the kitchen, Kim had made a second carafe of coffee. He pulled her aside. “You got a plan for where to go, if they call for that evac?” he asked.

“My mom’s in Portland. If Carbon gets to Level 2, I’ll pick up Denise on the way.” Her sister, Zack’s mother. Sam nodded solemnly. Thinking of Zack served as a good reminder that life was unfair to more folks than just the Bishops.

“But you guys should go sooner, don’t you think?” Kim jutted her chin in the direction of Annie in the living room.

“I’m not sure.” Sam eyed the darkness outside the window, where the smoke seemed to collect against the glass like lead shavings to a magnet. Annie’s small army of doctors had warned them against letting her O2 levels dip below 90, which was basically guaranteed if they got on the interstate, given the AQI. And while the idea of retreating to Highline still grated at his already raw nerves, there was also the Eddy’s business to consider. Closing even one day would put Sam behind on his contributions to Annie’s meds. “Hunkering down here is probably as good a place as any.”

Kim gave him a doubtful look. “Unless the wind shifts, bringing this fire closer to town.”

In which case the entirety of Carbon would be at Level 3. “Don’t even put that shit out into the universe,” he muttered.

“At least call Claude back and find out if the air quality is better up at Highline, like I suspect it is.”

Sam felt the resistance pull from the very core of him, like the strain of muscle when lifting something far too heavy. “My Highline house is a mess,” he said quietly. “You know that.”

“Even if it is in a state of home improvement,” Kim pressed, emphasizing her word choice, “it’s got to be better than this.” She gestured toward the window. “I’m sorry to be a pain in your ass, but it’s true.”

Home. Improvement.Basically Sam’s life’s goal, from the foundation up. He knew his inability to let that house go had broken Mel, but what she didn’t understand: nothing had ever been gifted to Sam good enough as it was. His life had been littered with leftovers: the castoffs of other kids from their lunch boxes, the clothes from the closet discreetly situated in the middle school counselor’s office, where he picked out jeans that didn’t fit exactly right and shirts in styles he didn’t like. Food from the church pantry, which consisted of everyone else’s rejected canned goods: pureed pumpkin in April, pickled beets, groceries people had grabbed by accident, while not paying attention, like no-sugar-added peaches and lima beans when they’d meant to buy kidney beans. The secondhand furniture in his house growing up? Markhad sent Sam dumpster diving for that. Everything in Sam’s life, when it came down to it, he’d had to work like hell to improve, fix, restore, or make better.

Mel had been the first thing in his life shiny and new, without strings attached. She’d come to him whole and healthy, with a sun-kissed river glow and a solid childhood upbringing behind her. Sometimes he sat back and marveled at her ability to walk through life carting so little baggage. And so he’d made sure: the things they’d bought together, they’d bought firsthand.

The dishes they’d picked out before their wedding still sat neatly stacked in the cupboard at Highline. The couch they’d selected on one of their many trips north to Annie’s cardiologist in Portland still sat in the oversize living room, directly across from the partially rebuilt fireplace. It was why he was here above the Eddy, with the girls. Eating off paper plates and sleeping on sofa beds felt preferable to seeing half-finished failure at every turn. Returning to Highline, especially to ride out this fire? He didn’t know if he could bear it.

Kim studied him, a frown tugging at her face, like she was trying to work out what exactly his hang-up was. He’d tell her, but who the hell knew where to start?

“As you’re packing,” she said at length, “don’t forget the practical stuff, like shampoo and washcloths. That sort of thing. I can still remember the Carson Fire ... back in ’98? Five days straight, sleeping on a cot on the gym floor of Carbon High School, will instill in you a healthy respect for toothpaste and a hairbrush, let me tell you. Remember two pairs of shoes for the girls. Jackets in case the weather turns.” She paused. “You’ll tell me if you hear directly from Mel?”

Sam managed a tight smile. “Yes, mother hen.”

As if on cue, his phone pinged in his back pocket, and he fished it out, surprised. “Speaking of whom ...” He read the text, probably delayed between cell towers. A simple, succinct message sending love to him and their daughters. No updates or instructions. No reassurances.He held it out for Kim to read, that damned knot settling in permanently in his throat.

“She’s okay,” Kim said immediately. “She’s saying everything is fine, that’s all.” Though it didn’t escape Sam’s notice when she dug her phone out of her pocket, too, leaving a hasty message for her sister to start looking now for the crates for her cats. And to toss some bottles of water in the car for good measure, just in case this thing turned from bad to worse.

CHAPTER 8

Following a rather somber breakfast in the smoke, True tackled the less-than-savory chore of repacking the groover—we call it that because of the grooves the bucket seat leaves on your backside,she’d told Emmett, to his delight—into the raft. She had just clicked the groover lid into place when Vivian approached her through the trees.

“So listen,” she said, and True felt herself tense. Here it was, the moment Mel had predicted, right along with the ash and smoke.

“It’s going to clear up,” she said quickly, though the morning haze was definitely not dissipating. If anything, it had settled into the river valley even more stubbornly.

Vivian just lifted both eyebrows in silent protest. “I’m a straight shooter,” she said, “and I need you to be the same.”

True exhaled, setting the groover down and nodding. “All right. Yeah.” She reminded herself that Vivian had entrusted her—her, True—with these precious four remaining days down the Outlaw. That trust felt sacred in a world where faith in people could be hard to come by. In their campfire circle, True had even found herself opening up about her own personal life—including how important her goddaughters were to her—in return. Maybe she’d felt comfortable knowing she was in like-minded company. Maybe it was seeing representation of gay family life, in contrast to the hetero one True was so acutely familiar with, that made her feel like opening up. Or maybe it was just Vivian. Either way, it was a first.

“How bad is this, really?” Vivian asked now. “What’s the protocol?”

True wavered. Just like last night, the thought of letting Vivian down felt almost as unsettling to her as letting down Mel.

Almost.

She cared about Emmett. Liked him very much. And she was starting to like his mother even more.

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