Elias Voss, 52, spent 28 years alone in U.S. Forest Service fire towers across the Pacific Northwest before he retired three years prior, and he still hasn’t shaken the habit of sizing up every room for the fastest exit the second he walks in. He’d shown up to the Bend fire department’s annual summer fundraiser only because his old spotter partner had badgered him for two weeks straight, dropped a check for $200 in the donation bucket the second he cleared the gate, and he was three steps from the parking lot when Maren tripped over the loose split-rail fence slat at his feet.
She was carrying a paper plate heaped with smoked brisket and pickles, a smudge of black printer ink on the inside of her left wrist from pricing books at the used shop she ran downtown, and she grabbed his forearm hard to steady herself, a dollop of barbecue sauce splattering onto the scuffed toe of his work boot. His first instinct was to jerk away, to mumble a polite no-harm-done and keep walking, because he hadn’t let anyone that wasn’t his primary care physician touch him in six years, not since his wife lost her fight with breast cancer. But then she laughed, low and throaty, the same laugh he’d replayed in his head for three days after he’d bought a 1960s trail map from her shop back in May, and he froze.
She apologized three times in a row, swiping at the sauce on his boot with a crumpled napkin, her shoulder brushing his thigh as she knelt, the faint scent of lavender laundry detergent and old paper wrapping around him, cutting through the smoky tang of the brisket pit and hop-heavy air of the beer garden. He told her it was fine, the boot was already beat to hell from hauling firewood all winter, and she tilted her head up at him, bright hazel eyes locking onto his, no quick polite glance away, no awkward shift back to her own space. She said she’d been meaning to track him down for weeks, that she’d found a 1972 Forest Service fire spotting handbook at an estate sale out in Redmond, dog-eared and full of handwritten notes from a spotter who’d worked the same central Oregon towers he had, and she’d kept it behind the counter waiting to run into him.
He leaned back against the fence, forgetting all about his planned exit, his half-drunk hazy IPA sweating cold in his hand as they talked. She leaned in whenever he told a story, shoulder bumping his every time a group of rowdy volunteer firefighters walked past, hanging on every word when he described watching a lightning strike spark a small fire 32 miles out through a wall of rain, how he’d sat in the tower for 12 hours straight relaying coordinates to ground crews until the storm passed. He was torn the whole time, half of him screaming to cut the conversation short, to run back to his quiet garage where he restored vintage binoculars and didn’t have to worry about saying the wrong thing or letting someone get close enough to hurt, the other half buzzing like the static he used to get on the tower radio when a storm was rolling in, warm and sharp and alive.
The small cover band wrapped up their set as the sun dipped below the Cascades, and a group of kids set off a string of cheap pink and gold fireworks over the field behind the beer garden, the light painting her face soft colors as she tilted her head up to watch. He didn’t think before he moved, lifting a hand to brush a fleck of brisket rub off the corner of her mouth, his calloused thumb brushing her skin for half a second. She didn’t flinch, turned back to him, her hand settling on his bicep again, this time intentional, no tripping required, her thumb brushing the faded fire service patch sewn onto the sleeve of his flannel. She said she’d been working up the nerve to ask him for months if he’d take her up to the old decommissioned fire tower on Tumalo Mountain sometime, she’d hiked halfway up a dozen times but never had the guts to climb the rickety ladder to the top alone.
He almost said no, the old familiar urge to shut down rising fast, but then he saw her bite her lower lip just a little, like she was nervous he’d turn her down, and he said yes before he could talk himself out of it. She scribbled her number on the back of a crumpled bookstore receipt, pressed it into his palm, her fingers lingering for a beat before she pulled away, said she had to go help wrap up the fundraiser and she’d text him to pick a day next weekend. He stood there for ten minutes after she walked away, his beer long warm, watching her laugh as she helped a little kid pick up a dropped cotton candy off the grass, the receipt crinkling soft in his hand. He tucked it into the inside pocket of his flannel, already mapping the easiest, most scenic trail up to the tower, the one that passed the field of wild lupines that bloomed this time of year.
