Page 8 of Trusting the Grumpy Mountain Man
I lean against the counter, considering how to explain. "Most of these kids have never had reliable adults in their lives. Trust comes hard. But if they can learn to trust themselves, their own abilities, that’s a start."
"By making them build shelters in a storm?" Her tone is skeptical, but there's genuine curiosity in her eyes.
"By showing them they can survive more than they think." I check the percolator, which has begun to bubble. "Most of them believe they're worthless because that's what they've been told their whole lives."
"And harsh conditions prove otherwise?"
"Success under pressure builds confidence no amount of talk therapy can match." I pour coffee into two mugs and hand her one. "Though we do that too, before you write up another violation."
She accepts the mug, her fingers brushing mine. The brief contact shouldn't register, but it does. "Group sessions?"
"Individual. Mason comes up from town twice a week. He’s a licensed therapist who specializes in trauma."
She looks surprised again. "That's actually... impressive."
"Try not to sound so shocked." I sit across from her, the small table between us. "I'm not opposed to professional help when it's the right kind."
She sips her coffee, grimaces slightly at the strength. "What made you start this program?"
It's a personal question, the kind I normally deflect. But the storm has us trapped here, and keeping her talking might prevent her from finding more violations to document.
"Saw too many kids getting churned through the system." I stare into my coffee rather than at her. "In fifteen years of fighting wildfires, you go into a lot of communities. See a lot of lost causes nobody's fighting for."
"So you decided to fight for them instead of fires?"
Something about her tone makes me look up. There's no judgment there, just interest. In the firelight, her eyes are warm brown, almost golden.
"A career change was mandatory after an injury." I rarely discuss this with anyone, but something about the isolation of the storm and the late hour loosens my tongue. "Burning treefell. Crushed my shoulder and broke three ribs. Doctors said I'd never carry a pack again."
"I'm sorry." Her voice softens with genuine sympathy.
"Don't be. Best thing that could have happened." I roll my shoulder unconsciously, feeling the familiar pull of scar tissue. "Made me reassess. Fire crew was working near a juvenile detention center that summer. Got talking to some of the staff. One thing led to another."
"That's quite a career pivot."
"Not really. Both jobs involve saving things worth saving."
She studies me over the rim of her mug. "And you decide what's worth saving?"
"The kids decide that themselves." I meet her gaze. "I just give them the tools to do the saving."
A particularly violent gust of wind rattles the windows. Riley glances toward the sound, concern crossing her features.
"Will the shelters hold?" she asks.
"If they built them right." I check my watch. "I'll do a patrol in an hour to make sure everyone's dry."
"In this?" She gestures toward the window where rain streams down the glass.
"Part of the job. I’m not a monster, the lesson is survival, not murder."
She sets her mug down decisively. "I'm coming with you."
"Not necessary."
"It is if I'm evaluating your program." Her chin lifts in that stubborn way I'm beginning to recognize. "I need to see how the participants fare in adverse conditions."
Arguing seems pointless. "Your shoes are still soaked. You'll need boots."
