Page 55 of Fight

She passes me back the water bottle. “No, sweetheart, we need water that’s actually going to last us more than the next twenty-four hours.” I shake an open palm, gesturing for her to give me the goggles.

“Now?” The panic in her voice is evident. She tugs the goggles off her head, leaving a red ring across her forehead and over the bridge of her nose, where her freckles are camouflaged by windburn. “You need to get it now?!”

“If we want to survive, yes. Toss me your water bottle.”

She finds her pack and slides it out with shaky hands, still questioning me. “Can’t we just melt the snow?”

What?I cock my head to the side, then remember she’s from a region that likely never received more than an inch or two at a time, if any. To her, snow is likely a novelty, something to play pretend with, simple fun instead of something you learn to live with for months on end.

“Do you know how much snow it takes to make a cup of water?”

I adjust the strap on the snow goggles and secure them over my face.

“No…”

“A fucking lot. We’ll burn through all our fuel and wood trying to melt enough to drink. If we can start off with water, we’ll be in a lot better shape.” I take her water bottle and top it off without giving her everything I have left. That way if I don’t make it back, I won’t be leaving her helpless.

“Where are you going to find water?”

“There’s a stream not far from here, less than a mile. I have to get to it before it freezes.”

I kneel on the floor in front of my pack and toss out everything nonessential. The less weight, the better. Water is heavy enough as it is. After digging out my headlamp, I pull it over my hat, then tuck the empty canteens in the bag. I test the headlamp by turning it on. Scottie shields her eyes from the bright light, and I turn it off. If I move fast enough, I’ll get there before it’s dark, but I’ll need light to find my way back. For added measure, I steal a flashlight off the shelf and add it to my pack for backup, along with a pack of batteries sitting next to it. I’ll be blind out there without a light source. Scottie can keep the lantern.

“Will it be contaminated?”

“We’ll boil it.” I zip up my backpack and stand, hoisting it over my shoulder, then retrieve the gloves she borrowed and shove my hands inside. They are still toasty from the handwarmers;it’s marvelous. “I’ll be back in thirty. Do not leave.” I point a finger at the ground. “I swear to God, Scottie, if you step foot out of this tower, I will tan your ass. That’s a promise.”

Her eyes gape at me. Grabbing up the cubie, I head for the door.

“Wait, but?—”

“Prescott. I will be back in thirty.”

I open the door and fight the wind to close it behind me. There’s no time to argue.

The door closes and I’m left alone. Until he returns, this place will feel like a crypt. I know first aid and basic life support, but I don’t have the wilderness survival skills Callahan possesses. The dull ache of my shoulder is what’s to be expected after having an arm pulled out of its socket and put back again, but it’s nothing in comparison to the pounding in my skull. I rifle through my bag and find the first aid kit, then dry-swallow a few ibuprofen.

The room is roughly fourteen by fourteen feet, surrounded by wall-to-wall windows. Tall awning shutters protect them from the snowstorm raging outside. It appears they’ve battened down the hatches for the season.

One wall is lined with the scuffed-up lower cabinets Callahan tore through while searching for the cubie he kept mumbling about. The cabinets continue halfway down the adjacent wall in an L-shape, they remind me of the ones you see in houses built in the 1940s. On the short side, there’s an open base cabinet at the end, and it seems the door was removed at some point so it could be used for storing stacks of split logs.

A divider is set up, near the wood, providing a barrier for thecast iron wood stove that sits on the other side. It’s small, but likely creates enough heat to easily warm the modest living quarters. There’s a little windowed door on the front of the stove and a newish-looking stove pipe that rises, making a couple turns before it meets the ceiling to vent out of the roof.

On the opposite wall to the cabinets is a twin bed with a bare mattress. The bed has two drawers underneath, providing additional storage, and it’s painted white to match the rest of the lookout. A crude handmade nightstand housing books on a shelf sits next to it, probably added sometime later.

The center of the room is taken up by a small island, and on top sits a large circle-shaped instrument with a topographic map. I assume it’s used by the lookout to calculate the location of wildfires.

I pick up the lantern to explore.

Directly underneath the freestanding cabinet, is a passthrough space that reaches the other side, and a few notebooks and maps sit in the opening. Below, clipboards hang from hooks on the side. I glance over the papers clipped to them; they’re some kind of daily logs that Callahan probably understands, but to me it reads like nonsensical jargon. Shallow shelves are built into another side of the island; a pair of binoculars, an old metal tin, field guides, writing utensils, and other miscellaneous items sit in the cubbies. A first aid kit hangs from another side, and beneath it is an old picture of Smokey Bear, who tells me that only I can prevent forest fires. The corners are peeling and the tape has yellowed with age. The remaining wall of the island has a sky chart nailed to it; it's probably been there for half a century based on how badly the images have been bleached by the sun.

I head toward the bed and open one of the drawers, pleased to find linens and blankets. Dryer sheets are tucked into the bedding, it reminds me of home where we did the same thing tokeep mice out of the church’s altar linens. The artificial smell of “clean cotton” permeates the musty space.

After making the bed, I get acquainted with the rest of the room. The white cabinets could use another layer of paint, but they’re in better condition than the ones at my apartment.What’s in here, anyway?With the lantern in hand, I peer inside. The first one has a few plastic rodent-proof containers stocked with cans of food and a few bags of prepackaged soups or other ready-to-eat meals.

“Whoa.” That’s a huge win.

Another door houses a green metal toolbox, and a broom and dustpan sit next to it. Nearby, an open cabinet showcases a folded-up camp stove and forest-green cans of propane. A set of drawers reveal a dented steel pot and other cookware. The shallow one at the top has silverware, a can opener, and a couple random cooking gadgets. I close the cabinets left open from Callahan as I investigate.

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