Rafe Mendez, 53, retired wildland firefighter turned native plant nursery owner, had already mapped his escape from the monthly Flagstaff Volunteer Fire Department potluck before he’d even heaped steaming green chile stew onto his crinkly paper plate. He’d spent the last seven years deliberately flying under the small town’s gossip radar, sticking to his 5-acre plot off Highway 180 where he sold split oak firewood and drought-resistant sagebrush and milkweed to folks who didn’t ask too many questions about the faded crew leader patch sewn to the shoulder of his flannel, worn soft from 10 years of washes and smoke exposure. His biggest flaw, one he’d long ago stopped trying to fix, was that he’d convinced himself letting anyone get close meant he’d end up responsible for them getting hurt, a lesson he’d learned the hard way in the 2018 Kaibab blaze that killed three members of his crew, the same one that led his wife to pack her bags six months later when he refused to talk about any of it.
He’d grabbed a spot at the farthest folding table, back to the wall, when a shadow fell across the seat across from him. He looked up, already ready to mumble an excuse about saving the seat for someone who wasn’t coming, when he recognized the new county forest service liaison, Clara, who’d moved up from Tucson two months prior. She was holding a bowl of horchata and a plate stacked with pork tamales, and every other seat in the hall was taken, so he just nodded, jerking his chin at the empty bench. She sat, her denim-clad knee brushing his by accident, and he tensed up for half a second before he noticed the thin, silvery scar snaking up her left forearm, identical to the one he’d gotten from a falling ponderosa branch in 2016.
“Got that fighting a chaparral fire outside Sonoita,” she said, following his gaze, lifting her arm to set it on the table a few inches from his. The cuff of her work shirt was frayed, and he could smell pine sap and cinnamon on her skin, sharp over the greasy smell of fried chicken and stew wafting through the hall. He didn’t reply at first, just tugged his own flannel cuff up half an inch to show her his matching scar, and she huffed a soft laugh, leaning in so her shoulder brushed his when she craned her neck to get a better look. They traded war stories for the next 20 minutes, no pity, no awkward pauses when he mentioned the 2018 blaze, no questions he didn’t want to answer. She’d lost a crew member in a 2020 fire outside Tucson, she told him, had switched to admin work after that because she couldn’t stand the thought of sending people out into terrain she couldn’t see for herself.
Their hands brushed when they both reached for the same jar of pickled jalapeños in the middle of the table at the same time, and Rafe’s skin prickled, the kind of jolt he hadn’t felt in years, equal parts electric and terrifying, like standing too close to a spot fire he didn’t see coming. He pulled his hand back fast, mumbled an apology, but she just grinned, nudging the jar toward him with her knuckle, her eyes dark and warm when she held his gaze for a beat longer than was strictly polite. The noise of the potluck faded into background static for a second, the clink of mason jars, the roar of conversation, the sound of a kid laughing by the dessert table, all of it distant, like he was hearing it through a fire retardant hood.
She told him she was updating the county’s backcountry fire risk maps, that half the unofficial trails in the woods west of town weren’t on any official paperwork, and she needed someone who knew the area to show her around. She offered to buy him a stack of blueberry pancakes at the diner on Route 66 before they left, extra syrup, no questions about his past if he didn’t want to talk about it. Rafe hesitated for a second, his chest tight, every self-protective instinct he’d honed over the last seven years screaming to say no, to make an excuse about having to split oak rounds early Saturday, to go back to his quiet empty house where no one could get close enough to get hurt. But he looked at her, at the scar on her arm, at the way she was leaning forward like she actually cared what he said, and he said yes, before he could overthink it.
They walked out to the parking lot together after the potluck wrapped up, the cold October air nipping at his cheeks, the sky dark enough that he could see the first few stars coming out over the San Francisco Peaks. She stopped next to her beat-up forest service truck, tapping the scar on his forearm lightly with her index finger, the pressure soft, intentional, before she pulled open the driver’s side door. She told him she’d pick him up at 6 a.m. Saturday, and he nodded, leaning against his own rusted 2008 Ford F-150 as she pulled out of the lot, taillights fading into the dark down the highway. He didn’t move for five full minutes, the ghost of her touch still on his arm, the taste of pickled jalapeño still sharp on his tongue, and for the first time in seven years, he didn’t feel like running.
