9
The fire hit and it hit hard. December had been unseasonably dry, less than a foot of snow and a series of warm afternoons that had melted what little fell. The town had brought in snowmaking machines so that they could have a white Christmas.
Patsy’s call wrenched them out of deep sleep. Just breaking dawn outside the window.
“We’re activated. Move!” And she was gone. Hotshot teams were never mobilized in mid-winter.
He punched Tori’s number, remembered that she was wintering with her famous writer husband in Seattle, mumbled an apology for waking her, and hung up. Next on his leg of the phone tree…nobody who was still in town.
Time to move.
He was pulling on his cotton long johns as Sheila stripped off her t-shirt and began doing the same.
“What are you doing?” Other than escala
