Elias Voss is 53, a retired forest fire spotter who’s spent the last four years holed up in his A-frame outside Astoria, Oregon, only leaving for supply runs and the annual fire department barbecue he feels obligated to attend. His biggest flaw, the one he’ll never admit out loud, is that he’s terrified of even the smallest risk after three members of his crew died in a 2019 burn that left him with a jagged, silvery scar snaking up his left bicep. He avoids neighbors, turns down invites to fish, ignores the little handwritten notes his next door neighbor’s niece tucks into his screen door whenever she’s in town.
He’s leaning against a splintered picnic table nursing a lukewarm Pabst when he spots her, Marnie, the niece, hauling a tray of pulled pork sliders toward the senior section of the park. She’s wearing cutoff jeans and a faded Fleetwood Mac tee, work boots caked in mud from her mobile bookshop van, and she trips over a half-buried cooler leg before she’s three feet from him. He moves before he thinks, one hand splaying firm across her waist to steady her, the other catching the edge of the tray before it can flip onto the grass. Her forearm brushes his scar as she grabs for the tray, and she freezes for half a second, dark eyes locking onto his, no polite look-away like everyone else does when they notice the damage. She smells like pine and lavender hand soap, sharp and soft at the same time, and he yanks his hand back like he’s been burned, mumbles an apology he doesn’t mean.
She doesn’t let him walk away. She sets the tray down on the table next to him, leans one hip against the edge so their legs are almost touching, and asks if he’s got an hour later to help her drop off leftover food at the downtown senior center. He opens his mouth to say no, to make up an excuse about needing to fix his water heater, to run back to his quiet cabin where no one expects anything from him, but she’s tilting her head at him, grinning like she already knows he’s going to cave, and he hears himself say sure.
The ride over in her dented VW van is loud, the radio blaring Johnny Cash deep cuts she sings off-key to, her hand tapping the steering wheel in time. She asks him about the fire lookout tower he used to man, not the fire itself, not the scars, and he finds himself rambling about the sunrises up there, the way you can see the ocean and the old growth pines all at once when the air is clear. They unload the sliders and coleslaw in the senior center’s dining room, and one of the old retired loggers he used to drink with winks across the room, yells “Nice catch at the park, Voss!” loud enough for everyone to turn and look. His face burns, and when he glances at Marnie she’s laughing so hard her eyes are crinkled, leaning in close enough that her shoulder presses solid to his when they stack the empty tin trays. “I’ve been trying to corner you for three weeks,” she says quiet, so no one else can hear, “You’re way better at hiding than I thought.”
They stop at the coastal overlook on the way back, the sun dipping low over the Pacific, painting the sky pink and tangerine and bruised purple. He tells her about the crew, about the way the wind shifted so fast they didn’t have time to run, about how he blames himself for not seeing the change on the radar sooner. She doesn’t say the stupid pitying things everyone else says, doesn’t pat his arm and tell him it wasn’t his fault. She just laces her fingers through his, runs her thumb over the thick, raised scar on his knuckle, and says “Grief doesn’t get to take every good thing left for you, you know.”
He doesn’t answer. He leans in, slow enough that she could pull away if she wanted, and kisses her. She tastes like cherry lemonade and spearmint gum, her hand coming up to cup the side of his face, calloused from turning the pages of old books all day, and he feels the tight knot he’s carried in his chest for four years loosen just a little.
They drive back to his cabin as the sky goes dark, fireflies flickering in the ditches along the dirt road. He fumbles with the old brass lock on his porch door when they get out, and he feels her step up behind him, her hand resting light on his lower back, still warm from the ride. He turns the key, pushes the door open, and steps aside to let her walk in first.
