I crouch down, carefully positioning my camera. “Very good,” I coo softly. “Stay just like that.”

The squirrels, of course, don’t follow my instructions, but they’re used to my presence by now and don’t freak out as I take a few pictures.

“Good job,” I say, my voice low and soothing as I check the camera to see how the photos turned out.

I’ve been watching this family of eastern fox squirrels for the past few weeks as a part of my research job. I’m a biologist, and this squirrel species is technically invasive. They’ve started taking over the forests here on the west coast, overrunning the native western gray squirrel.

As a biologist, this is pretty concerning. I’ve written tons of papers about the dangers of human tampering with the environment in regards to invasive species.

As a human being, however, these squirrels are adorable.

This squirrel family is six strong: two parents and four babies. I’m especially interested in following the babies. I need to see if they cohabitate with the western gray squirrel and we usually see that in the new generation. But I make sure to record everything about their habits, and try to find as many families in the area as possible.

It’s difficult work, and most people would probably find it lonely, but I love it. I get to live in a cabin away from everyone else, in some of the thickest, most untouched forest left in California. I stock up on food about once a month. Otherwise, I don’t have to talk to anybody.

It’s fantastic.

I take a few more pictures and then check my watch. Another great thing about this job? No boss leaning over my shoulder. I get to set my own hours and live by my own schedule. Not that I’m lazy or anything. I’m probably a little too organized, if one were to ask any of the foster families I lived with. But here I have full control.

I might even stay up here when the time comes around to renew my contract. Eight months is the longest I’ve stayed in any place, but without any people around, I can see myself possibly sticking around for longer. It’s not like the university I work for is going to suddenly stop needing field research.

My phone buzzes, and I pull it out to check. My reception here is crap but it’s not like anyone ever texts or calls me anyway except for my bosses. And even they usually just email.

It’s not a text, though, it’s one of those mass alerts they send out.

Warning: Forest Fire.

I quickly skim through the alert. It’s the usual hoopla about a forest fire, better evacuate, etc. I take forest fires seriously, but honestly, it’s par for the course this time of year. The university would contact me if there was any real danger. If I evacuated every time there was a fire hazard I’d never get any work done.

I look around me and sniff the air. No signs of smoke, no smell of it, the animals are making noise like usual. That’s the first sign of trouble in a forest: silence. If you’re in the woods and you suddenly can’t hear any animals, that’s when you know that something’s wrong.

But everything seems fine now.

I spend a couple more hours documenting animal movements, tracks, those sorts of things. I know it’s stupid, but I get this weird pang of envy whenever I see the mother squirrel feeding her babies and grooming them. Animals are simple. Easy to understand. They’re fueled by basic, instinctive needs. When they have babies, they take care of those babies. You don’t see them abandoning them or choosing drugs over caring for their own offspring.

It’s possible I’m projecting a little too much onto these animals. But if you ask me, I’ve got a right to be bitter. People screw you over. Animals? Don’t. And if they do, you should’ve seen it coming. Animals have patterns. They make sense. People don’t.

Once my work’s done for the day I head back to the cabin. I should probably pack a bag, just in case I get a call from my bosses telling me to get out. Forest fires can turn in a moment if the wind shifts.

I pack a small overnight bag. I don’t have a whole lot of belongings. Byproduct of growing up in foster homes, you learn to pack light, not to hold onto a lot of stuff. Not that I like to think of it that way. I’m not a sob story. I’m a survivor. This makes it easier for me to do something like, say, pack up and leave when a fire might destroy my dwelling.

I record all the data and shoot off an email to the university letting them know about the fire warning and updating them on some of the animals. They’ll be excited about the squirrel family. Then I watch some television on my computer and turn in for the night. Typical evening, really. Just the way I like it.

Morning is not typical.

For one thing, I wake up long before my alarm. I’m a heavy sleeper. I rarely wake up before my alarm, not unless something’s wrong.

The moment I open my eyes, I know that something’s off. I don’t know exactly what it is yet, but it’s something, and it’s putting me on edge.

I sit up, and listen closely. Has someone driven up to my cabin for some reason? Are there hikers or campers? Not out of the realm of possibility, but unusual.

No sound of talking, tramping feet, or cars. In fact… there’s no sound at all. No birds. No nothing.

Oh, no.

I jump up and hurry to the window. I don’t see the squirrels in their nest. They could just be hunkered down, but…

I grab my cell phone and run outside.

There’s a whiff of smoke in the air. I can smell it the moment I step out. I unlock my phone and try calling--

No service.

Dammit, how can the cell towers be out already? How long has this fire been going on? It must have been raging all night. And I was sleeping like an idiot.

I hurry back inside and open my laptop. If my phone’s already got no service, it means the fire’s taken out the cell tower closest to me. But hopefully…

No Wifi either. Nothing. No way for me to check and see where the fire is, if I’ve gotten any emails alerting me. I’ve got nobody to contact and nothing to rely on except for my instincts.

I take a few deep, calming breaths. Okay. I’ve packed my overnight bag, that’s fine. I put my laptop and notes into it and head out to my Jeep. I don’t use the car often. Only about once a month, when I need supplies, but it’s built for the rougher terrain in the woods, so I should be fine as long as I don’t panic and remember to drive safely.

But when I hop into the car and turn the key…

Oh, no. “No, no, no,” I say out loud, thumping the steering wheel. “Come on!”

Of all the goddamn days for the battery to be dead, of course it happens on the one day when I’m in danger of burning alive. Because why in hell would life give me a break?

I can feel myself starting to tear up as panic settles, cold and sharp, into my chest. I fight back the tears. Panicking is the last thing that’ll help me, and I’ll be damned if I start crying over something like this. I’ve been through tough situations before. I just need to stay calm and think.

Walking the twenty miles to the nearest town is an exhausting prospect for me, even under the best of circumstances. I walk all over the woods during the day but not that far or that strenuously. And with a fire raging, it gets about ten times more dangerous. I have no idea where this fire is. I could be walking straight into a roaring inferno.

In other words, I’m completely stranded.

I take deep breaths, trying to keep my panic down. I get out of the car with my bag and go back inside the cabin. Maybe the fire will miss me. Here I’ve still got running water, and shelter, and food. At this point it’s safer to stay here and hope that I can somehow establish a Wifi or cell connection than it is to wander out into the waiting arms of the blaze.

“You’ve got this, Rebecca,” I tell myself. I’ve survived bad shit before, I can survive this.

I hope.