When a Fire Burns Hot

By Corey Richard

The crew, led by an experienced Native American firefighter named Fast Horse, faces a mix of dangerous environmental and social conditions as he leads his crew deeper into a forbidding wilderness. Nature itself becomes a central character as the crew struggles for cohesion and battles for its survival. Will those able to build bridges instead pick sides as time runs out?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543941814

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When a Fire Burns Hot

Copyright © 2018 Corey Richard

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-54394-181-4

Table of Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Introduction

The phone rang for the first time that day. As he snatched it up, Frank’s heart beat faster at the appearance of possibility. But it was just his mother, asking, in a hesitantly cheerful voice, what he wanted for dinner. Both were conscious that they were tying up the phone, so it was a quick conversation. He sank back deeper in gloom, feeling a little guilty about how he had so quickly dismissed his mother. She’d understand, though; she always did.

He changed channels and settled into the cushions. He’d been waiting for over a month now; all winter, actually. But today the feeling of futility nagged at him. He tried to be patient, but what else was there to do but wait? He once again questioned his decision to dedicate his summer as he had. There was no guarantee of anything.

An hour later, the rang again. Saddle up, College Boy! It’s on! came a booming, cheerful voice.

Copy that! Frank said eagerly, but the phone had already gone dead. Fuck yeah! he yelled, and pumped a solid fist high in the air. He jumped up and punched the air repeatedly, until he felt slightly foolish. He mentally surveyed the bags packed by the door. He knew everything was there, but he did it anyway, and didn’t stop until he was out the door and in the car.

As he drove, he considered the fact that in a matter of minutes, he would be on a bus headed somewhere new -- somewhere that would undoubtedly deliver on its promise of adventure. And he’d be making money just for sitting there, surrounded by new faces. This year would be different from the last. There was no way he’d back down and let himself feel uneasy in the camaraderie of others. He would be more like them. After all, this year he wasn’t green.

As he pulled into the lot, he surveyed the mix of men milling about the bus, and his courage instantly waned.

Chapter 1

The trip to the fire had been uneventful. The firefighters had quickly gone silent, letting the rumble of the bus lull them to sleep. A sharp turn off the main highway, up a dirt road, past the fire camp, and the bus arrived at the day’s work site. There, the crew was met by a Forest Service regular. Instructions were given as the crew stumbled out of the bus into the bright morning sun. They squinted and studied their surroundings, stretched their legs, and gathered tools from the back of the bus. Then they dispersed, as ordered, to form one long line, their new, bright-yellow shirts and matching hard hats contrasting fiercely with the gray-and-black dullness of the charred landscape. At their front lay the vast remains of the forest. Small fumaroles of smoke snaked up out of holes in the earth where trees had once stood.

Standing motionlessly, Frank surveyed the carnage, almost savoring the thoroughness of the destruction. He wiped a sandy brown strand of hair clear of his blue eyes and scrutinized a few scrawny nearby trees, bereft of needles, poking out of the desolate earth. He forced himself to briefly mourn the absence of the early summer foliage that had decorated the land only yesterday. Gone were the subtle shades of color that had given distinction to things now transformed into indistinguishable particles of ash.

Frank patted a tree under which he had found a measure of shade, and a small cloud of black soot swirled around his gloved hand. He looked up and saw that some of the tree’s needles were still green. The tree might yet live. If it did, it would grow as never before, free from the competition of others, feeding on the nutrients of the dead.

He took the smell of the burn deep into his lungs, and memories of things seen and experienced during the last fire season surfaced. He was glad to be back again, standing in costume on the huge black stage, and more than ready to play the role he had rehearsed all winter.

Frank examined his fellow firefighters, now spaced out as points on an imaginary line running to either side of him. He forced himself to be pleased with their dissimilarities, and tried to look forward to knowing these now-unfamiliar faces. These were people he might not have had a chance to get to know otherwise, he reminded himself, and he was someone new to them, as yet unlabeled and free to re-create himself.

Frank realized that he was lagging behind the others as the line slowly advanced. In an attempt to cover lost ground, he took a hasty step forward on what he figured was solid ground. To his surprise, the ground gave way and he sank to his knee. Whoa! he exclaimed, laughing to cover his slight embarrassment as he pulled his foot-tall leather boot out of a loose pocket of minerals and ash. He straightened to see the wide, grinning, brown face of Scott, his newly assigned work partner, angled down at him.

We got a smoke, partner, Scott said.

Oh, okay...

Side by side, the two men kicked up a low-lying cloud of ash as they broke a little ahead of the line and stomped over the soft, gray land toward a small wisp of smoke, which waved like a dirty flag. It told of wood smoldering beneath ground level.

Everythin’ a hundred percent out, huh? Scott asked, already knowing the answer.

Yeah, that’s what Fast Horse said.

Both men paused when they arrived at the rim of a shallow, smoking cavity. Frank removed a water bottle from the case that hung from his belt. He took a gulp. The water was still slightly cold. Enjoy it now, he told himself. Its contents would soon be hot and unsatisfying.

Noting the tracks over the ashy floor next to him, Frank suddenly felt like he’d been sent to clean up after a party other crews had been important enough to be invited to. Just hours earlier, those crews had faced the most unforgiving of elements, and had been given the opportunity to test their skills and redefine their limits. Frank envied them. He’d seen very little real fire action. Again, he was mopping up. Already mopping up, and we just got here. Probably got the whole fire knocked down by now. Frank became concerned that his statement might be taken as a whine. As he returned his water bottle to its case, Frank told himself he had no choice but to accept what he had no power to change.

Yeah, prob’ly, Scott said wanly. After you, he added, gesturing toward the smoking depression.

No, I wouldn’t dare rob you of such a fine opportunity.

You get on in there, skinny boy, you need mo’ muscle on you, Scott said in his smooth, deep voice, readying a smile.

Well, which is more important, Scott, building muscle or getting rid of that winter fat? Frank suddenly feared he had spoken too daringly, and wondered what had made him act so uncharacteristically. He decided it must be the lack of sleep.

Scott, however, was not so easily offended, and turned to him, laughing squinteyed before dropping into the depression. You got a point there, partner. I’ll give you that one.

Frank’s eyes quickly skated over the horizon, and he caught sight of his squad boss eyeing him and Scott from a rapidly decreasing distance. Frank and he locked eyes for a few seconds before Frank lowered his and moved into the depression. He absently watched Scott unearth glowing red coals with a shovel and remembered hearing their squad boss being dubbed Alaska by someone in the crew who had learned which state this boss called home. As he chopped into the ashy ground next to the exposed embers with his Pulaski tool, Frank relived the uneasy feeling that this man, Alaska, had left him with the previous night. Alaska had openly sized him up upon learning that he would be in his squad, as if using intimidation as a tool to scour for any signs of weakness. Frank guessed that Alaska, like other men before him, had been trying to determine if Frank met some pre-determined set of criteria. He could only hope that Alaska would notice that he was a good worker and leave him to do his job. Something told him he wouldn’t mix well with this new boss; but if so, it wouldn’t be his fault, he decided.

A face soon appeared at the rim of the depression, and Frank looked up to find himself the target of a withering glare. That smoke’s not goin’ out by itself, ya know.

Uh... yeah, we were just startin’ on it, Frank replied sheepishly, drawling his words but not really meaning to. He just did that when he was nervous. He stooped beside Scott and vigorously dug up more embers using the hoelike blade of his Pulaski. Alaska’s smothering presence bred uneasiness in the pair.

The partners labored steadily and methodically, remembering that the crew boss, Fast Horse, had ordered the crew to conserve its energy. It would be a long, hot day, with the temperatures likely to exceed one hundred degrees in the black, nearly barren area to which the crew had been assigned. Moppingup was never an occasion to push one’s limits.

The squad boss became increasingly critical as he observed the performance. You gotta get real aggressive, there, he said, sounding faintly condescending. Bump outta there, Alaska grunted, as he displaced the pair in order to give them an unneeded demonstration.

We were pacing ourselves, Frank said to the ground after stepping aside. He realized too late that he’d said the wrong thing. Alaska slowly turned and aimed a hostile look of incredulity at Frank. Then, with a scowl, he released Frank abruptly from his visual grip and began digging furiously with his Pulaski.

Alaska worked as if his body and tool were inseparably joined to form one solid, welloiled unit. Soon all the smoking wood and coals in the pit lay scattered about his feet in disarray. Now you, with the shovel, get in there and mix all this up, he said, not bothering to wipe away the sweat which trickled down his face, some of it finding its way into his eyes and mouth.

Frank felt himself shrinking back at Alaska’s harsh tone. He was filled with resentment as he watched Scott dutifully drop into the pit. He then, almost unconsciously, recalled his days on the playground where he and an occasional playmate had been subjected to the kindergarten cruelty of those with something to prove. A familiar feeling of helplessness wormed its way through him.

After Scott had finished, Alaska stepped back into the pit. He removed his glove and thrust his bare hand into the dirt to inspect Scott’s work. He found nothing overly hot to the touch. He put his glove back on and stepped out of the depression. All right, I want to see every single one done that way, he barked.

Frank managed to reply, Yeah, sure... No problem! hoping to sound enthusiastic enough to convince Alaska that he had already been planning to do a good job. Alaska’s piercing gray eyes bored through Frank one last time before he swaggered insistently towards another pair of firefighters working on a smoke of their own, but spending more energy in recanting tales from the prior year than on the task at hand.

As he watched Alaska depart, Frank guessed that his boss was the type who was consumed with an immediate need to establish his absolute authority. Or maybe Alaska was just out of his element, and would only feel he had something to prove out here until he became more confident. Frank heard his mother’s voice telling him that Alaska was probably just insecure and needed someone to understand him and be on his side in this strange new place. He tried to shake the idea out of his head, as if it tainted him to have it there. He was beginning to think that it was his mother who had gotten him into trouble all the time in the first place, trying to raise him as a sensitive child when he’d always been surrounded by packs of ruthless dogs.

Frank then remembered hearing that Alaska had nine fire seasons behind him. He felt the release of a reckless trickle of sympathy for a man he had been preparing to despise. It must be hard for Alaska to be getting paid only a dollar an hour more than a rookie out here, he thought. He wondered what brought this Alaska guy to Oregon in the first place. Surely he could have found a better job back where he was from; they’d had more fires up there last season than any other state.

The two partners stood where their smoke had been and gazed numbly at the churned ground, waiting for others to put their smokes out. The silence was unsettling to Frank, and he decided to try and coax Scott out of his stupor. Think it was a pretty hot fire yesterday? he asked after setting his foot on the rim of the depression.

Scott left his thoughts to answer, Seems like it was, but not real hot like some last year.

Probably should’ve let it burn longer, then. It’d be good for the area.

Somebody gotta make a decision either way, I figure.

Yeah, even a wrong one sometimes. Frank momentarily reveled in the perceived strength of his convictions.

Scott looked at him with puzzled amusement. What you doin’ out here fightin’ fires, then?

Guess I need the money, Frank said, after a pause.

Scott smiled. Don’ we all, brother.

Yeah, I wanna go back to college. Frank felt that he had answered Scott’s question accurately, but he was conscious of something more luring him back to the fire crew for a second season. This other motive, however, eluded him, as if it already knew the searcher’s next move.

Scott looked at Frank seriously. You stick with it. Cain’ ever hurt a man to get a degree if he got the chance to. Grunts ain’ nothin’ much, and they don’ never have a say. Degree’s got a chance to give ya some kinda power, I figure.

That Scott thought of a college education as attaining power surprised Frank. Yeah, I’ll be in charge next year, Frank laughed, before admitting to himself that power wasn’t for him. To him, power was associated with abuse and injustice. He wasn’t that type of person. But there was some truth to what Scott had said about grunts not having a say in the world. Maybe he wouldn’t be powerful, but he could be important nevertheless. To get there, though, he might have to compete with others. Would he fit in? Or would he just be another odd piece of furniture, compelled to remain inconspicuous, maintaining a distance from his office pals to keep from being exposed as not being one of them?

Frank left his mental wanderings in the hope of returning to a worthwhile conversation. So, what have you been up to while waitin’ for the fire call, Scott?

Scott finished his scan of the horizon. Without turning his head to look at Frank, he voiced a slow response: Been livin’ at a shelter. His words carried thinly-veiled tones of disconsolation.

They recruit there or something?

Kinda. Fast Horse drags some folks from the FS office down there every year, and they sign a few up for that fire guard school if they pass the step test.

Frank’s interest was quickly kindled, and he looked at Scott with curiosity. Scott looked back at Frank and said, You know what I mean, don’ ya? Step up and down on that box and you can go if you got a low pulse count. You had to take that, din’t ya?

Oh yeah. Everyone does, far as I know.

Don’ know ‘bout that...

Frank looked at Scott quizzically, but let it pass. Do a lot of people pass at the shelter?

Sure, pretty many. Lots don’t, though. Me, I got off my ass and started runnin’ in the park. Tried da get some folks to join me, but it was tough.

Do a lot of people there want to fight fires? I mean, the money must seem pretty good to ‘em.

Not too many. Money’s pretty good to ‘em, but’cha gotta give up the booze for a summer.

"So they like being drunks?"

Scott paused before answering, "No, I ain’ sayin’ that. Some’re happier than others, but I guess no one likes it." Scott clearly thought he was stating the obvious.

Frank searched for the right thing to say, or for a provocative question to pose to this man, whom he now realized must spend a significant part of his life living in homeless shelters. Frank desperately wanted to come across as being squarely on Scott’s side, while at the same time hoping to learn something from him. Yet Frank feared that with so little in common, he would inadvertently say the wrong thing. So, how are things these days at the shelter? Frank said, expecting a negative answer.

Oh... Scott sighed deeply and stared off in the distance. S’all right... I guess.

Frank refused to believe that Scott was as resigned to his fate as he appeared. On a short dispatch the previous year, Frank had observed Scott to be a usually sullen but occasionally jovial man who spoke little with others. Scott’s eating habits had been ridiculed on occasion, but he always seemed to let the insults slide off him. He didn’t seem to care about any would-be antagonists. But Frank, on several occasions, thought he had sensed a dormant rage smoldering somewhere deep inside the man, like a smoke after a forest fire.

Frank expressed his disbelief. Really? It’s all right there? Scott looked at Frank for a moment, then resumed the motions of a visual search for smokes. Aren’t there too many people these days? Frank pressed, after recalling a local television special he had watched recently.

Yeah, course it’s too crowded, Scott said without emotion. He wasn’t one to readily volunteer information.

That really sucks. Do they run out of meals these days? Frank was excited to finally have a chance to voice his sympathy.

Scott looked at him like he wanted to ask Frank what he meant by these days, but didn’t bother. He blinked at Frank’s sympathetic face momentarily and, after turning away, finally answered, Yeah, lotsa folks go dumpster divin’. Scott sighed. He didn’t notice Frank wince. Then we get together an’ make up a batch of stuff we call hobo stew.

Frank’s expression soured, and he shook his head slowly.

Scott’s head snapped sideways, and he looked Frank squarely in the eyes, his bloodshot eyes growing slightly bigger as he spoke. "Hobo stew is good," he announced, making it clear to Frank that any expression of doubt would be met with hostility.

Uh, yeah... I just never tried it, shouldn’t have made any assumptions. Frank was horrified to have offended.

A conspicuous silence quickly enveloped the two men. To Frank, Scott suddenly seemed much more dignified than he had seemed before. More human. Frank checked a welling of sympathy for the man before it overwhelmed him. He looked back at Scott apologetically, only to be startled by the strange expression on his partner’s face. Scott’s glazed eyes were directed into the distance, and as Frank watched, Scott’s eyelids begin to twitch spastically. He looked away, feeling embarrassed that his partner was having some sort of fit.

But it wasn’t a fit Scott was having. Deep inside, memories long kept at bay were beginning to trickle through narrow openings no longer guarded by their sentry, alcohol. Out here he was naked and vulnerable as he faced the ghosts of his past -- ghosts he had tried to chase away his entire life.

A glass shattered, and its shards slid across the flowered linoleum floor. Jagged pieces came to rest at the feet of the crouching boy in the corner. He stopped rolling his toy fire engine back and forth, and inspected the sparkling jagged beauty of the closest pieces. He wanted to touch them, but was afraid.

"I fuckhin’ tol’ you!... Ain’ nuhthin’ I can do. What I can do’s drink this ‘ere bottle dry... I ghot a right to do that, aihn’ I? Still mah house, aihn’ it?

The crouching boy’s mother was accustomed to these tirades from her husband. She tried to comfort her man by brushing her hand over his knee with nervous hesitation. You tried the shipyard, baby?

The boy looked up in sudden terror, having noted his father’s failure to respond verbally. He knew an act of violence might soon take place. His small voice quivered as he grabbed a piece of broken glass and held it tight, saying, She, she didn’t do nothin’, Daddy.

The man looked down at the boy with hostile amusement and found his way to his feet. He staggered towards the crouching figure with the little clenched fists. He swayed slightly and braced himself against the wall, hoping a sudden feeling of vertigo would pass. It did not. Couplah cowards... nagghin’ wife... an’ here I gohts Scott turnin’ intah a fuhckin’ mahma’s boy. The drunk father then turned, stumbled into the living room, and clicked on the television before flopping into his chair. The familiar hollow roar of a sports crowd filled the room and signaled an end to the danger. The boy unclenched his bleeding hand, noticing the blood in the center of his palm. The master of the house was soon asleep.

Don’ worry about me, went the familiar phrase from the young man whose face showed the eager beginnings of manhood. His head was forced high and was filled with the unfocused dreams of youth. Determination took over where guidance left off. A big part of him was resolved to put the past as far behind as possible. When I get a phone I’ll give you the number, he said.

The mother lovingly brushed his hair with her hand, as mothers everywhere do. But she had already resigned herself to the fact that her boy was leaving, just as she had resigned herself to so much else.

The young man’s early attempts at lasting employment were unsuccessful. One of his first jobs was to assist the customers of a shoestore. He had been kind and helpful, and people had almost always left satisfied with their treatment and purchase. He couldn’t understand it when the owner called him into the back room to have a talk.

Scott, you know I like you, son. A hand rested uneasily on the young man’s shoulder. I’m just not sure we’re the best place for you. Guess this job takes a kind of a hustler. Some’re cut out for it, an’ some ain’t, the boss said, with a grin as an accompaniment.

When out of work and unfocused, the youth became easily depressed. He wanted to be something his father could never be: important. But he lacked confidence, and few stopped to take a look at the potential or good nature in either the boy or the man. What went neglected soon lay fallow. He eventually used the one skill his father taught him, and reached for a bottle to chase away the pain.

In later years, mornings often found Scott lying on the concrete slab with twisted rebar poking out of its ends, down by the bend in the river where the water sat motionless and stagnant. Below him, wily carp swirled around submerged shopping carts, occasionally caught by kids and sold to Chinese restaurants. On the bridge above, cars roared in either direction, and the skyscrapers hovered, as if suspended in the dirty air. He would often wake and curse the world upon finding that his pants were again wet with urine.

Chapter 2

Okay ... Lunch! Alaska yelled to the five people in his squad.

The members of Squad Three gathered at a place chosen by Alaska, which was as shady a spot as he could find in the desolate landscape. This marked the first occasion the six had gathered together without the presence of the other two squads.

All right, kids. We’re gonna do this ‘first day of school’ thing and introduce ourselves, Alaska said, as if tired of the game already, and pointed to Frank. We’ll start with you there.

I’m Frank.

Okay, Frank, and how many seasons do you have?

Two.

Alaska’s finger next pointed at Scott. And you.

I’m Scott and the same’s true for me.

Finding nothing there to pursue, Alaska moved on to a young man wearing a mask of artificial serenity. "How ‘bout you, man?" Alaska prodded, as a smirk readied itself on his face.

I’m Paul, and no... I haven’t fought any fires before, the youth replied softly, the pitch of his voice rising at the end of his sentence. But I’m ready to do whatever I’m supposed to do out here. I think it’s really cool that we all get a chance to save the forests and all.

You ain’t a fire bug, are ya? You know, someone who starts fires for fun, like them Indians? When Alaska looked at Paul, it was obvious from the bemused look on his face that he hadn’t seen too many people like him before.

No...

Okay, cool. Alaska smiled thinly, and looked at the rest of the group for signs that Paul amused them as well. Frank resisted the temptation to get on Alaska’s good side by returning his look.

Only one person showed signs of amusement, heavily laced with disgust. Alaska turned to the skinny black man who had inaudibly displayed the desired reaction. And you? Alaska asked.

The man continued to eye Paul for effect before turning to Alaska. Yeah, I’m Todd, he announced. That was all that needed to be said as far as Todd was concerned; actions would soon speak for themselves. He didn’t want to say more.

Well, Todd, do you have any firefighting experience? Alaska asked, his voice again wrapped in condescension.

Todd was accustomed to being sized up at a first meeting, and he took Alaska’s question as a challenge. Man, I fought just about every way there is ta fight. Been fired on, and I’m still here. Todd’s top lip curled upwards, and he brushed his hands over his chest with exaggerated pride, emphasizing that he was still whole. The reason why is, I fire back. He then cast a look of stern ruthlessness around the group that was soundly convincing to all but Alaska, who was too consumed with preparing a lecture to consider much else.

Todd continued, I can handle just about every fuckin’ thing that ol’ motherfuckin’ nature ‘cides to throw ma way... Tell ya that right now.

Listen, buddy. Alaska’s jaw tightened with irritation, his entire body tense, disgust glowing fiercely in his squinting eyes. He too had some things he wanted to set in stone, before there were any doubts. Nobody out here can think they’re tougher than a fire. The second you feel you’re safe, Todd, you get killed by a falling tree, or lose track of a fire and get your butt burnt -- and mine, too! Fire will humble your ass, and you’d better learn that shit quick! Alaska’s unsteady finger remained pointed at Todd while he searched for something more to add to his lecture, something from the years of lectures his own supervisors had given him.

The moment Todd had noted Alaska’s unexpectedly hostile tone, he had readied his own display of hostility. He wasn’t about to let white-bread Alaska get his chance to continue the degrading lecture, especially not in front of the rest of the crew. His eyes widened before he whipped his words at his antagonist of the moment. "No, YOU listen, motherfucker! Ain’t nobody gone point a finger at me ‘less they ready to lose that finger an’ a whole lot more ‘long with it! You understand me, buddy?"

Alaska lurched to his feet, not entirely realizing that his body language signaled a challenge that, for Todd, could only be met with physical violence. Alaska, however, was on the verge of unleashing his fury on his new foe, of this there was no doubt. Todd launched his body into a standing position, seeming as much machine as human.

Most of the rest of the squad sat stunned, as if lightning had just struck amongst them. It had, in a way. Scott alone wasn’t shocked at what was taking place, and he merely raised his eyebrows and looked on in anticipation.

Standin’ up on me, motherfucker? Todd snarled. Every muscle in his body had readied with purpose in an instant. His eyes darted around in search of weapons that he could use or that might be used against him. His face showed the blankness of insanity, while his eyes had the sharpness of those of an eagle about to dive at its prey.

Alaska stood motionless, facing his approaching adversary. His face was a deep crimson. It looked like his entire head was a blood vessel ready to burst.

Todd looked over Alaska’s shoulder at something in the distance, and halted abruptly. Alaska turned to see what it was that had caught Todd’s attention. Todd considered how stupid Alaska was to have just lowered his defenses, but it wasn’t a bluff; having stood up, the men were now in the crew boss’s field of vision.

Alaska turned back to Todd. Let’s just cool out a bit here, he said, carefully enunciating each word. This isn’t going to do you any good. You can’t scare me. All you can do is get sent home. Alaska didn’t sound entirely convinced of what he was saying.

Alaska’s words had no effect. Todd leaned toward a sweating Alaska and hissed into his face: "As long as you got what I tol’ you, we ain’t got no fuckin’ problem in the world. But that crew boss saved your ass jus’ now. ‘Member that. Todd then laughed as he casually stepped away from the confrontation. Fucker wants to ‘cool out,’ where the hell he from, anyway," he scoffed.

Outwardly, Todd appeared composed as he picked up his backpack and stepped over to a tree, trying not to show he was conscious that the squad’s eyes were still directed at him. He sat down, leaned back against the tree’s trunk, and opened his lunch bag, appearing critical as he examined the contents before pulling out a soft white sandwich. He took an aggressive, oversized bite and draped his arm over his raised knee.

Feeling foolish standing up alone, Alaska finally decided to sit down.

Frank watched the rivulets of perspiration stream down his boss’s face. Every muscle in Alaska’s body still seemed taut as Alaska sat down. Frank pitied him for a moment, but this feeling was soon accompanied by one of disgust for both him and Todd. They had both so easily given in to the basest of tendencies. They had been ready to use violence without even taking a moment to reconsider their decision. Each had wanted to physically punish the other for his words. It should be considered unconscionable.

Alaska would have to watch himself around Todd if he had any sense, Frank thought to himself. He had seen young men like Todd in the cities and in his own high school, and he knew that it was wise to stay clear of these types, who were raised on a diet of violence and bravado. Inwardly, however, he realized, with slight alarm, that he thrilled at the prospect of further confrontations between the men.

You two boys done butting horns? a woman asked, deftly breaking the silence.

Alaska turned towards the voice. Ordinarily, he would have snapped at the woman in an attempt to set her straight as to how she should address her boss, but he was too preoccupied to be annoyed. His face remained blank.

"I’m Alice. I’ve never fought fires or people before. So I just wanna say that it’s great to be working with you all..."

Todd grunted and stretched out under the tree, pretending to ignore her. Frank, in contrast, smiled at Alice encouragingly as she started a conversation with him and Scott about being called to duty the day before.

Alaska, meanwhile, erected imaginary walls around himself and sank into a more secure world. He leaned back against a fallen log, trying to feel comfortable. He tried to eat, but tossed his food aside in disgust. How did he get stuck with such an asshole? Why did things so often go wrong with the people he dealt with? It was those who tried to remain uncontrollable that were always the biggest problems. Why did people have to be that way? How could he possibly lead them if they wouldn’t just let him lead? He was their leader, and they sure as hell better get that straight soon.

Todd finished his sandwich, and started in on a candy bar. The confrontation with Alaska had bothered him only momentarily. He had expected he would have to fight his way into a spot on the crew. It had been that way all his life. But he still felt out of place, he realized, almost like he’d felt in his high school classes. It was like the rules had changed, making the game totally incomprehensible to him. If only things were the same everywhere. He missed being a part of something powerful, something that said who you were and gave you the strength to back it up. Those in his world could all say they were somebody. Everyone on the outside lived in a huge, cold place full of chumps just like the ones now sitting around him. And here he was: outside, a fucking immigrant like those vatos from the East Side. He’d have to take charge of the unfamiliar and make this place his own as soon as possible.

He thought back to his boys, and admitted to himself that he missed hanging out with them. He knew that someday soon he would go back, but for now he would keep hiding out. But he wasn’t a coward; he was a survivor.