Page 12 of Into the Fire

The last time I’d checked Dante’s harness, Dutch was still alive. I’d checked the buckle twice, and Dante had told me to quit fussing because we’d be home by Sunday.

My hands stopped.

Dante’s voice dropped low, just under what Nash could hear. “You know, if you’re this set on getting your hands on me, there are less bureaucratic ways to go about it. Shorter forms.”

I heard footsteps behind me. Shep was there, carrying an armload of gear. He dropped a piece. He’d heard something.

I checked the last buckle and stepped back.

“Fit’s correct,” I said.

Dante laughed behind me as I left the loft.

I made it across the yard before he caught up.

“Hatcher.”

I kept walking.

“Boone.”

That stopped me.

Dante came up beside me, still in the new boots, carrying his harness over one shoulder. He held it out.

“You forgot to tell me where this goes.”

“You know where it goes.”

“I do.”

I looked at him.

He smiled. “I wanted to see if you did.”

The equipment racks were exactly where they’d been five years ago. Somebody had painted the uprights, but the arrangement hadn’t changed.

“Third rack,” I said. “Second bay.”

Dante looked toward it.

“That’s where mine used to be.”

“I know.”

For a few seconds, the compressor behind the loft was the loudest thing in the yard. A Steller’s jay landed on the roof above us, yelled about something, and flew off again.

Dante shifted the harness on his shoulder. “Forty-one twenty-two isn’t bad for an old man.”

“You’re thirty-four.”

“Ancient.”

“You were faster when your feet were smaller.”

He laughed.

Dante went straight to the third rack without looking for it. Most of the labels had been replaced over the years. The one on the second bay hadn’t. Five seasons of sun had faded most of the ink.