"The timeline has been accelerated."

This time, Hank stood at the back of the room, arms crossed, as the commissioner took the floor. He wasn't surprised to hear it. The language used in the previous meetings had left little room to wonder what direction the commissioner's office was veering.

"Because of the wildfire that just broke out in Southern Cali?" someone asked. This was news to Hank, but his manner didn't change. His expression remained grim.

The commissioner nodded. "That's why we're downgrading the crisis here. The state offices and the feds had determined that the wildfire here is less of a threat now than it was before. We're going to start reallocating our resources south."

"This feels premature." Hank surprised himself by speaking up. Recently, he hadn't been as directly involved in these discussions, preferring to sit back and listen while he reasoned himself out of feeling like he had a personal stake. He had sensed his dismissal coming, and figured it was better to leave the decision-making to those who would be sticking around longer after he was gone.

But he couldn't let this latest assessment slide without saying something. He pushed off from the wall and rejoined the other chiefs. "We should wait and see which direction the storm blows."

A murmur of agreement came from the other volunteers.

The Cedar Springs chief looked to the commissioner, but the commissioner shook his head. "Science has already told us which direction she'll blow. The local meteorologists are all in agreement."

"Yeah, because those weather jockeys have never been wrong before," the volunteer chief from Oregon piped up.

"The decision has already been made," the commissioner said firmly. "The local fire department and the National Guard members still assigned here will be more than adequate, should anything arise. I consider this meeting dismissed."

Hank equally considered the conversation over. He trusted that people more qualified than an Alaskan fire chief were working out their calculations behind the scenes; he believed it—because he had to. His caution wasn't an adequate reason to raise an argument, his gut feeling even less so. Hadn't he just spent half of his summer trying to teach his men that there was more to firefighting than instinct—and devil-may-care audacity in the face of danger?

"Feels wrong." The Oregon chief, Greg, confirmed his worry as they walked out of the meeting together. "Glad you said something. I think the commissioner's office got tired of taking my phone calls."

"We just have to trust they know what they're talking about," Hank replied.

"That good enough for you?"

"No." But what else could he do? His hands were tied. He had given up any real say he might have had in the town's future when he’d left Cedar Springs a decade ago. It was up to the real local authorities to decide what was and wasn't right.

He stood off to the side of the hallway with Greg as the others trickled out. Hank saw the dissent in their faces, but their postures spoke of reluctant acceptance. It wasn't a good look on them. These were proud men and women for a reason, and they were now reduced to second-guessing their own intuition. He saw the Cedar Springs chief attempt to pull the commissioner aside for a private talk, but the secretary from the commissioner's office hustled over to intervene.

"These damn officials just hate spending money, especially in a rural place like this," Greg remarked.

"Nothing we didn't already know or expect," Hank replied. "You take what they're willing to give you and improvise the rest."

Greg chuckled and shook his head in agreement. "Same thing happens back home every time fire season starts up again. There never used to be a 'fire season', but that's the world we live in now."

"Keeps guys like us employed, unfortunately."

"Yeah. Unfortunately." Greg clapped him on the back. "My squad's expecting to be dismissed any day now. I'll miss seeing you around, Logan. My guys liked teaming with yours."

"The feeling was mutual." They shook hands and parted ways, leaving Hank to wonder if this might be the last time he saw Greg again. The man’s comments certainly had the ring of finality. He wondered, too, how long it would be now before he received his own marching orders. Then it would be up to him to decide whether he stayed or went.

The fact that he was even considering options was something to worry about.

"Options. What options might those be, Logan?" he muttered to himself. He stood on the porch of the station, leaning against one of the support beams, and gazed off down the street toward the hub of town. The haze hadn't lifted, but it definitely seemed to be thinning some. Cedar Springs was finally letting its kids out now to enjoy what remained of their summer vacation. He watched a troop of them jump down from the steps of the ice cream shop and shoot across the street, laughing and balancing the multi-level scoops heaped atop their waffle cones. Locals that he recognized from growing up here—and now nodded to in passing—stopped to chat with each other on the sidewalks in front of stores and milled around with their dogs.

He could come home. He could be a part of it again.

"Hell," he said again. He rubbed his nose, but the friction didn't ignite any clear ideas. What should he do? Stay here and try to see if he could make something work with Lana, or run back to the life he had made for himself in Alaska?

If you could call it a life.

Neither option seemed like the right answer. So he was stuck, loving Lana—and unable to stay because he loved her.

She was better off without him.

He just wished he could keep himself away from her.