Page 10 of Into the Fire

They were far enough away that I didn’t make out the rest.

I turned to watch the rest of the base in full morning swing. Ramirez was on a ladder at the rack line. I heard music from a radio in the loft doorway. Hollis crossed my path with a roll of cargo webbing over one shoulder.

“Dante passed?”

“Forty-one twenty-two,” I said.

“Solid,” Hollis said.

Dante returned without Shep at his side. We drifted toward the ready room. Two steps inside, Dante stopped.

“Where’s the couch?”

“Gone.”

He turned to look at me.

“Gone where?”

“The dump. Three years ago.”

“That couch survived two administrations.”

“It had mice in it, Dante.”

“It had character. We watched While You Were Sleeping on that couch.”

“You were watching it. I was reading,” I said.

“You knew when to look up.” He shook his head. “I leave for five minutes.”

“Five years.”

“That’s your version of the story.”

Inside the ready room, Shep was repeating part of a Dante story about a horse. Ramirez wanted it from the top.

I gripped Dante’s shoulder. “Loft. Thursday. Eight.”

“I know.”

***

Thursday morning, the loft doors stood wide open, and Dante was already inside.

The morning sun reached halfway across the floor. A canopy stretched the length of one packing table, its suspension lines laid out straight. Deployment bags filled the racks along the wall. Nash stood at the far end of the table, working his way through the lines.

He picked up a clipboard and turned toward Dante. “Boots,” he said.

Dante set his new fire boots on the bench. Nash picked one up, turned it over, checked the sole and the stitching.

“Those aren’t what you wore Tuesday.”

“It would have been stupid to wear them on the pack test.”

“Wisdom—not bad,” Nash said.

I watched as Nash reached a hand out, and Dante handed him the tape. He took his place without being told. Nash adjusted Dante’s stance once, measured across his shoulders, and checked the number.