Page 10 of Smoke Season

But Mel wasn’t privy to any of this. “What day are you supposed to hit Quartz?” she asked.

Quartz Canyon, the highlight of the trip, and by far the most technical Class IV rapids True tackled, still sat a good distance west, two days’ float from where they camped tonight. Quartz required a scouting trip to survey the rapids and give guests a preview of the whitewater to come. Boats tended to bottleneck there ... a river traffic jam of sorts, and even though True’s river colleagues should be through by now, it was imperative she hit the canyon at the right time to ensure they stayed on schedule.

“We’re not supposed to run Quartz until Thursday,” she said slowly. She had intended to take the Wus only as far as the Nugget, an old historical landmark halfway along their course, before camping again for the night. “So that we end at Temple Bar on Friday, per usual.” She always disembarked at Temple on Fridays. Not a day earlier. Not a day later.

No exceptions. It robbed her of half the joy of being on the river, letting the current guide her, but True could mourn that later, when Annie was post-surgery. Mel needed the cash from only one more river run to refill the prescriptions that ensured Annie’s eligibility to go under the knife, which meant this nightmare summer project was just about over.

“If your clients spook,” Mel pressed, “you may not have until Thursday.”

They won’t spook,True wanted to shout, but Mel’s paranoia had ballooned in her own chest, expanding there, holding her words captive. God, she hated this shit.

Mel carried right on, making contingency plans. “Worst-case scenario? You talk them into stopping over at Wonderland. Get relief from the smoke, stage a full day. Then you can still end on Friday, onschedule.” Or at least that was what True thought Mel said ... She had begun to cut out again, her familiar voice crackling with static.

But Wonderland Lodge sat below Quartz Canyon, and it wasn’t open to unexpected smoke refugees. The longtime owners of the isolated and rustic smattering of cabins and aging outbuildings weren’t exactly the warm and fuzzy type. Henry and Sue Martin regarded rafting guides as the unwashed and unwanted, True perhaps the worst among them, for no more reason than perhaps her “unconventional” hairstyle (that would be Sue) and “bossy ways” (True preferred “leadership style,” thank you).

“That’s a crapshoot at best,” she reminded Mel now. “Anyway, we can’t rush the canyon. My clients aren’t ready.” There was that protective tug for the Wus again, but this time, True had logic on her side. They would need at least another day on the water before Vivian and Emmett felt comfortable enough to tackle such a technically difficult slot canyon. And it was crucial theywereready, because if anything went wrong, if they failed to navigate between the narrow rocks and True missed the deadline with Fallows ... She swallowed hard, the idea of being caught between a rock and a hard place taking on secondary meaning.

“Like I said, you might not have a choice,” Mel pressed, her voice still tight with stress despite her assurances that they were dealing with a “baby” fire. “Be proactive. Push to Wonderland. Stage twenty-four hours.”

True frowned into the receiver. It never sat well with her when Mel gave orders.Save that for the station,she usually told her. Tonight, she remained quiet, prompting Mel to fill the silence. “I’m sorry to ask this of you,” she said. “I’m sorry to ask any of it.”

True shuffled through several retorts in her mind, but bit back all of them. Yes, Mel had the ability to press an unfair advantage, but what mother wouldn’t do anything to protect her kid? Besides, True was a big girl, and she’d made her own choices.

“I know,” she assured her, pinching her eyes shut tightly to ward off another swell of nerves. “I just hate this, Mel. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This complicated.”

“What’s that?” Mel said. “You’re cutting out.”

I hate feeling edgy all the time. This is supposed to be my safe space, where my life is simplified to just the flow of the current, without distributaries channeling me toward unrequited feelings I cannot entertain in families I cannot have.“Nothing,” True answered. “I’ll keep them on the river. Whatever it takes.”

She swallowed the hard lump of misgiving that arose in her throat, one hand resting on her stomach as if to calm the butterflies that danced there practically all the time these days. She went to switch off the sat phone—it was pointless prolonging a call with a bad connection—then hesitated. “But Mel? Try Sam one more time, will you? Just ... I’ll feel better, knowing the kids are okay.”

A long pause, while the connection seemed to cut and paste on itself in repeated spurts of the same gravelly white noise. “Yep,” Mel’s voice sounded eventually. A delay, this time upward of ten seconds. “Feel better,” she added, which let True know she’d misheard her. She said something more, her voice warbling in and out like a country-western singer on an old radio program.

“I can’t ... I can’t hear you,” True answered, frustration rising, causing her voice to rise pathetically. “Bye, Mel,” she managed. “Stay safe.”

Please.

The Smoke

CHAPTER 5

July 11

5:15 a.m.

After a restless night, Mel awoke on the side of Flatiron to a whole new world. On either side of her, crew members stirred in their sleeping bags, coughing and shifting as an eerily intense warmth in the air awoke them. They arose one by one as Mel had, sitting up with exclamations of alarm at the ash that covered their bags, hair, and skin. She scrambled out of her bag, kicking at it as it clung to her boots, which she was now glad she’d worn to bed. Shaking a dusting of ash from her long hair, she weaved her way between sprawled sleeping bags and hastened up the slope from their impromptu camp, José on her heels.

As they crested the edge of the plateau at the tree line, the sight of the blaze met them through the smoke.

“Shit!” Mel staggered back, one hand rising to shield her face. She knew now that they should have taken things more seriously last night; the docile spot fire of the evening before was now an angry, pulsating wall distinguishable even at this distance. The heat of it hit her like she’d just opened an oven door to check on the progress of a batch of cookies, and she skidded out in the shale, holding up a fist toward José, ordering him to stop where he stood a few yards back. “It’s rolling!” she shouted.

José froze, hands on his head in dismay, tears from the heat and the smoke already forming in his eyes. “How thefuckdid this happen so fucking fast?”

Mel shook her head. So much for the campfire they’d hoped to stomp out. The wall of flame before them contradicted everything Mel had learned in her years of fire science. Sam had seen something like this, she remembered suddenly, during his first tour in Afghanistan, when the chemical fires would barrel down the narrow streets of Ghazni City. But here in the wilderness, the flames should have decreased, not increased, in the cooler night temperatures. Not act like lava as it consumed the dead, highly flammable undergrowth on the forest floor, gulping oxygen as it progressed. Suddenly tackling this blaze felt like more than babysitting, and she swallowed a swell of actual worry. The heat of this fire was sufficient to tinge Mel’s skin, standing this close. Which meant the smoke of it just might reach Annie’s lungs.

Just before dawn, True dreamed of snow. It was one of those early-morning dreams in which she lay just on the cusp of wakefulness, reality almost but not quite in reach. Usually, her dreams these days involved wads of cash and raging river currents; snow in July was a fresh take on preconscious anxiety. And while possible, it wasn’t remotely likely. Not while she lay sprawled out with her down sleeping bag only half-zipped, the air hitting her skin lacking even the tiniest bite. Then she opened her eyes and did a double take: wispy flakes indeed floated lazily from the sky, a layer already accumulating on her bag.

But not a layer of snow. Of ash.

---