Wicked Embers

The sky stretched out like a brittle canvas, pale and trembling with heat. At 10,000 feet, the world looked different—cleaner, quieter, lonelier. Reese Maddox adjusted her pack on her shoulder as she stood at the base of the Rocky Crest Lookout, tilting her head back to stare at the tower that would be hers for the next three months The narrow stairs spiraled upward, clinging to the steel frame like ribs. She exhaled, the sound swallowed by pine needles shifting in a warm updraft. Her boots crunched on sun-bleached gravel as she stepped forward. This was exactly what she’d asked for. Solitude. Remoteness. Redemption. The tower was a monolith of functionality: square windows on all sides, a single solar panel angled from the roof, the entire cabin perched high above the treetops like an old sentinel. No distractions. No expectations. Just a radio, a stove, and 360 degrees of sky and silence. Reese climbed, each step rhythmic and familiar. She’d done this work before, but not like this—not since everything unraveled back home. Her hand brushed the pine tattoo on her forearm, barely visible under her rolled-up sleeve. She remembered the way her father used to say, “The forest will always outlast the fire.” But he hadn’t seen what she'd seen. Or done what she’d done. Inside, the tower was a tidy box of survival: narrow cot, wood stove, desk with laminated topographic maps, and binoculars on a hook. It smelled of smoke and dust and dry timber. She liked it instantly. She dropped her duffel on the cot and let herself breathe. No one knew her here. No one would ask questions. And no one would get close enough to be burned. --- Day One began with inventory. Reese checked the radio, tested the weather monitor, and refilled the water filter. The usual. The forest stretched out in every direction—pines and firs, ridgelines dusted in late-spring snow. A hawk circled lazy loops above the eastern valley. Below, the base cabin waited for any visiting personnel. She hoped to never need it. As she scribbled a few notes in the logbook, a crackle came over the radio. “Crest Lookout, this is Aspen Command. You settled in?” Reese grabbed the receiver. “Affirmative. Everything looks clear from up here.” “Good to hear. There is no major activity yet, but watch those northwestern ridges—dry lightning expected this week. You’ve got a supply drop scheduled for Thursday, weather permitting.” “Copy that.” A pause. “Hey, Maddox?” She tensed. “Yeah?” “Glad you’re back out there.” Static swallowed the rest. Reese stared at the receiver a moment longer, then clicked it off. That was as close as anyone from HQ would come to acknowledge what had happened. No one asked why she’d been reassigned. No one spoke the word “suspension.” But she heard it anyway—in their silences, in their sidelong glances when she returned to training, in the way no one partnered with her during drills. A memory flickered—warm breath against her neck, the scent of whiskey and cedar, a whisper: “We can’t be seen together.” Reese shook it off. That part of her life was gone. Vaporized. Good riddance. --- That evening, she watched the sun dip behind the far ridge, casting long shadows across the valley floor. The air cooled fast at elevation. She layered on a fleece, lit the stove, and boiled water for tea. At dusk, the silence became thicker—almost palpable. No sirens, no phones, no voices but the wind’s. Some people found it eerie. Reese found it… honest. She unrolled her sleeping bag and slid onto the cot, staring at the wooden ceiling. Tomorrow, she’d begin the first perimeter hike. She made a mental note to check the firebreaks near Deadman’s Hollow. Sleep came slow. The cot creaked beneath her as the tower swayed ever so slightly in the wind. She was finally alone. So why did it feel like she couldn’t breathe? --- Two days passed in a rhythm. Reese both welcomed and endured. Morning perimeter checks. Midday surveillance reports. Nights with books and static from the AM radio. Her own thoughts filled the gaps. Sometimes too loudly. Then, on the fourth day, the rhythm broke. A rustling below. Tires. She froze at the desk, listening. No vehicle was expected. She stepped outside onto the wraparound platform and peered down the stairwell. A Jeep Wrangler was parked beside the base cabin. Then, a flash of color—platinum hair with lavender tips, a scarf fluttering in the breeze, and then a figure stepped into full view. Slim, short, all confidence and chaos. A camera swung from her neck. She wore combat boots, cargo pants patched at the knees, and a bright yellow tee that read “ART IS FIRE.” Reese’s stomach twisted. A visitor. An unannounced one. She descended quickly. By the time she reached the bottom, the stranger was examining a charred pine trunk with fascination. “Can I help you?” Reese asked, voice flat and clipped. The person turned. Their smile was a spark. “Hi! I’m Sky. Sky Quinn. I’m the photographer, the Forestry Arts Residency approved. I sent a memo to Aspen Command a few weeks ago, but I’m guessing it got lost in the bureaucratic abyss?” Reese crossed her arms. “No one told me.” Sky shrugged. “Sounds about right. Mind if I set up camp nearby? I promise I’m quiet, and I don’t need much. Just good light and access to some firelines.” Reese narrowed her eyes. “This isn’t a campground. It’s a fire zone.” “And I have full clearance, promise. I even passed the safety briefing.” Sky flashed a laminated badge from a neck lanyard. “See? I’m official.” Reese didn’t respond. Sky tilted their head, amber eyes dancing. “You must be Reese Maddox.” Reese blinked. “How did you—?” “I read the staffing roster,” Sky said. “Wanted to know who I’d be sharing the sky with.” There was something in the way Sky said it—playful, easy, but laced with a kind of awareness that made Reese’s skin prickle. She wasn’t used to being seen that quickly. Reese sighed. “You can set up near the base cabin. Stay out of the tower unless there’s an emergency. And if I say move, you move. No arguments.” Sky gave a cheeky salute. “Yes, Captain.” Reese turned, jaw tight. “And, hey,” Sky added, “thanks for not turning me away. I think this place might just save my life.” Reese didn’t respond. But her fingers clenched tighter around the railing. --- By nightfall, Sky had set up a small but well-organized campsite beside the base cabin. Reese could see the glow of their lantern from the tower, a soft flicker in the dark. Occasionally, she’d hear humming or the low click of a camera shutter. She tried to ignore it. She tried to pretend the silence still belonged to her. But it didn’t. Not anymore. --- The next morning, Reese opened the tower door and nearly stumbled over a thermos. A note was taped to it. Thought you could use something stronger than government-issue instant. It’s vanilla-hazelnut. – Sky She stared at the note for a full minute before picking it up. The coffee was good. Dammit. --- By Day Seven, the pattern had shifted. Sky didn’t ask for permission to be charming—they simply were. They danced through the forest like it was a cathedral, camera always ready, laughter echoing off the trees. They talked to squirrels. They quoted poetry. They wore mismatched socks on purpose. Reese tried to stay unaffected. Tried to keep her walls intact. But Sky had a way of slipping through cracks. “Have you always been this grumpy,” Sky asked one evening, lounging on a rock near the lookout, “or is it just me?” “I’m not grumpy,” Reese muttered. Sky grinned. “Sure. And the sky isn’t blue.” Reese glanced away. “I’m here to work. Not make friends.” Sky’s voice softened. “Maybe you can do both.” Reese turned to face them. “What do you want from me?” Sky didn’t flinch. “Nothing you’re not ready to give.” They held eye contact for a heartbeat too long. Then Sky stood and brushed off their jeans. “Night, Ranger Maddox.” Reese watched them walk away, pulse loud in her ears. This wasn’t supposed to happen. --- Later that night, as thunder rolled in the distance and shadows curled along the edges of the forest, Reese stared out at the dark treetops and thought of the way Sky’s fingers had brushed hers earlier—accidental or intentional, she wasn’t sure. She could still feel the warmth. She didn’t sleep. ---