Page 121 of From Air

“In here,” he says as I step toward the stairs. He’s sitting on the end of his bed, arms on his knees, hands folded.

With a shaky breath, I pad my way into his room and sit on an old metal chest by the window.

We remain idle in silence for a minute, maybe two.

“I fight fires because that’s where I see them.” His words are ominous, imparting a sense of foreboding.

And for a second, I consider asking him to stop. I second-guess my need to know because I’m terrified this could be more than I’m ready to hear.

“It’s an awful way to die. The smoke. The heat. The panic.” He rests his head in his hands. “All because a crazy man started a fire to kill a fucking bear.”

My.

Heart.

Stops.

What is he doing? Why is he saying this?

“It engulfed thirty-two thousand acres. Seventeen people died, including five firefighters. My mom. My dad. My sister.”

The room spins just like my mind. I’m not hearing this. It’s impossible.

I slowly shake my head.

This is not right. That’s not what happened. Edith told me ...Fitzsaid ...

Didn’t he?

He lifts his head with pain etched into his face. “I see my sister the most.” He swallows hard, eyes reddening. “She’s screaming. She’s telling me to stop the fire. And she looks behind her, like she’s looking for our parents. Then she cries.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “And sometimes I hear her whisper ‘Thank you’ when the fire’s out.”

Jesus . . .

Words don’t exist. I’m afraid to speak. I’m so scared to take a breath or even blink. I’m gutted, decimated—a hollow shell of flesh and bones.

Fitz waits between slow blinks. He waits for me to say something.

Something sympathetic.

Something soothing.

Something that one lover would say to another.

Is this it? Is this the guilt and embarrassment from which my mom tried to protect me? The crushing feeling that accountability has been transferred to me?

“I don’t know what happiness looks like,” he says, as if that’s all there is to say—as if that explains everything. And perhaps it does. He’s no longer an enigma. Calvin Fitzgerald is a survivor of unspeakable life circumstances.

He can’t give meeverythingbecause he has nothing left to give.

Tears sting my eyes.

“But I know what grief looks like,” he continues. “And I know how it feels. I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone. One day”—he bows his head and runs his hands through his hair—“I’m afraid I’ll fall from the airjustto trek into the fire. No tools. No lines to dig. I’ll follow my sister because it wasn’t fair that I lived, and she ...” He presses his lips together, slowly shaking his head and closing his eyes.

She died.

I stand with weak knees, trudging through a cruel fate to reach him. He spreads his legs and hugs me. My cheek rests on the top of his head.

“What happened to the man who started the fire?” I ask. It’s an awful question, but I have to know for certain. Maybe Dwight Keane isn’t the only man in history to have started a fire to kill a bear.

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