Joy Shared Between Us

The road out of Bellwether County stopped moving before the smoke reached the windshield. My mother gripped the steering wheel while I watched a line of cars stretch past the bend ahead. Orange light flickered through the trees on our left. My phone had lost service ten minutes earlier, and the radio kept repeating the same evacuation notice in a voice too calm for the view outside. "Windows up," Mom said. "They are up." "Check yours anyway, Nora." I checked. The passenger window was sealed. I could smell smoke through the vents, though, and the heat had started to press against the glass. Our whole life was in the back seat: two backpacks, a grocery bag full of clothes, and Mom's folder of work papers. We had packed in eleven minutes after the alert came through. The only thing I'd argued for was the battered blue blanket on my bed. Mom had held it up, looked at the dog hair and the frayed edge, and packed it without a word. The line ahead moved three feet and stopped again. Then a woman climbed out of the car two vehicles in front of us. She was waving both arms at the road. A black sedan sat at an angle across the shoulder, its driver's door open. A girl stood beside it, barefoot in a pale dress, one hand pressed to her mouth. Mom released her seat belt. "Don't," I said, though I already knew she was going. "Stay here." "Mom." She looked back at me. "I mean it." She hurried toward the girl. I watched the other woman point toward the sedan and then back toward the smoky trees. Mom said something I couldn't hear. The girl didn't move. I got out. The air felt like opening an oven. I ran to Mom, my shoes crunching over gravel. The girl was about my age, maybe a little younger. Her dress looked expensive. A thin silver chain circled her throat, and one of her feet was bleeding where a shard of glass had cut across the sole. "What happened?" I asked. "She won't get in the car," Mom said. "Her driver had to leave to find help. She says her father is coming." The woman beside her shook her head. "The phone's dead. The roads are closing. We can't leave her here." The girl stared down the line of traffic. Her face was pale under a smear of ash. "Your dad might be trying to reach you," I said. "But he can't get here if the road closes." "I know where he is," she said. "Then we can call when there's service." "I said I know where he is." Her voice cracked on the last word. She looked furious about it. Mom put a hand on the girl's shoulder, giving her time to pull away. She didn't. "Come with us," Mom said. "We have room." The girl glanced at our dusty hatchback. "That's your car?" "It is." "Your car is tiny." "And the fire is enormous," I said. "We should pick our battles." For one second, she looked at me as if she might laugh. Then she turned toward the sedan. "My bag." The other woman ran to get it. The bag was a small leather overnight case. Mom took it from her, and I helped the girl into our back seat. She winced as her cut foot touched the floor mat. "Seat belt," I said. "I know how to use a seat belt." "Good. We're all learning something today." Mom got behind the wheel. Before I climbed in beside the girl, I looked back at the sedan. Smoke had begun to coil over the road behind it. "Go," I said. Mom drove onto the shoulder and eased past the stalled cars. We moved at a crawl, with the windows sealed and the air set to recirculate. The girl sat stiffly beside me, hands folded over her bag. She didn't give us her name. "I'm Nora," I said. "I know." I blinked. "How?" "Your mom said it." "You've been listening." "I have ears." "Good to know." She turned her face toward the window. "My name is Clara." By the time we reached the edge of the evacuation zone, the sky had gone the color of a bruise. Mom found a county bus depot open to evacuees and parked among cars coated in ash. Volunteers passed out water and masks. A woman with a clipboard took Clara's name, then stopped when Clara gave her address. "You're Graham Wren's daughter?" she asked. Clara went very still. The volunteer hurried away to make a call. Mom found a bench, cleaned Clara's cut with a bottle of water and the last of our first-aid wipes, and wrapped it in a clean bandanna. Clara watched her hands. "My mother died when I was eight," Clara said. Mom's fingers paused, then continued. "I'm sorry." "People say that like it's a password." "I don't have a better phrase." Clara looked at her. Something in her face softened, though only for a moment. A man in a dark jacket came through the depot doors about an hour later. He moved fast, scanning every face. When he saw Clara, he stopped so suddenly that a volunteer nearly walked into him. "Clara." She stood. He crossed the room and pulled her into his arms. She let him. His hands shook against her back. He said something into her hair. I couldn't hear the words. Clara lifted her face, and I saw her wipe at her cheeks before he could. When he finally let her go, he looked at Mom. "Graham Wren. I can't thank you enough." "Lena Vale." He shook her hand. His attention shifted to me, then back to Clara. "We're going home." Clara's hand closed around my wrist. "Can Nora come?" she asked. I looked at her. "Your dad can take you home." "I know where my dad is." Her voice had gone quiet again. "That isn't what I'm asking." Mr. Wren glanced from her to me. "We can talk about it." Clara held my wrist tighter. "Do you want a dad?" The question landed between us, strange and sudden. "I don't know," I said. She looked at me as if she understood the answer better than I did. "That's okay," she said. "We can find out."