“Farther into Rocky Mountain National Park. If you’re going to follow us around, we can’t come into town to get you every time we get a call.”
“Holy shit. So I’m going to have to, like … pack?”
“Yep. These,” he said, nodding forward, “are our quarters. TV room,” he said, pointing left. Two sofas and four recliners sat in front of a large television. It was a widescreen, but seemed to be its own unit, older than most of the guys watching it. Tyler waved, and they waved back, curious but not enough to move from their chairs. “Another office,” he said, pointing to a room farther down on the left. “We do our reports on that computer. And there,” he said, pointing right, “is the kitchen.”
I walked through the doorway, seeing a rectangular table that seated eight on one side, and a modest cooking area with cabinets on each side, a refrigerator, and a stove. Next to the sink sat a toaster and a microwave. They seemed to have everything they needed, although it was the size of a closet to serve eight or so men.
Tyler continued through a second doorway. “These are the sleeping quarters.”
“Seriously?” The room looked like an infirmary, with beds set almost side-by-side, separated only by individual, square, armoire-like pieces. “What are those?”
“They hold our personal belongings—extra clothes, coats, stuff like that. There are two on each side, sort of like lockers.”
“You sleep like this? In one big room with a bunch of guys?”
“Sometimes. Yes, some of them snore.”
I made a face, and Tyler laughed. “C’mon. Let’s go see the superintendent.”
We walked back through the kitchen, passing the guys in the TV room. They were just beginning to stir, standing up and stretching.
“Are they going somewhere?” I asked.
“They eat breakfast and watch the news. Then they go down and do chores unless we get a call. In off-season, we work a typical forty-hour week, five AM to four PM or four PM to ten PM.”
“No fires at night?”
“Yeah, for the full-time engine guys.”
“Chores?”
“Yep. Wash the vehicles, sweep and mop floors, dishes … whatever. We don’t have maids here.”
I snarled at him, knowing it was a dig at me.
“Downtime—if we get any—is a lot different at the hotshot duty station. We dig new trails and fix fence and signage, run drills…”
“So, not really downtime,” I said.
Tyler knocked on the door across from the quarters, and a deep voice growled from the other side.
“Come in, damn it!”
Tyler winked at me and opened the door. The superintendent sat behind his desk, partially hidden by several file folders and an ancient, boxy computer, looking frustrated.
“Hey, Chief. I have a journalist here who—”
“Do you know anything about Twitter?” Chief asked, his black eyes targeting me.
“Pardon?” I said.
“The Twitter. Do you know anything about it? Someone with a lot more time and who makes a lot more money than me decided we needed to have a Twitter account, and I haven’t the slightest fucking clue how to … what is it called?”
“Tweet,” Tyler said, trying not to laugh.
He pounded his fist on the desk. “Goddamn it! Tweet!”
“Yes. I could probably help,” I said, “but I’m here on an assignment, Mister…”
He looked at me only briefly before shaking his head and returning his attention to the computer. “It’s just Chief. What assignment?”
“I’m a … photographer for the MountainEar.” Even though it was the truth, I felt like I was lying. “I’ve been assigned to the Alpine Hotshots. Mr. Wick would like to share with the community what you guys do.”
“We tweet,” he grumbled.
Tyler breathed out a laugh. “Chief, c’mon. Miss Edson would like to—”
“Edson?” Chief said, finally deciding I was worth more of his consideration than Twitter.
Shit.
Chief narrowed his eyes at me. “As in Edson Tech?”
“Uh…” I began, not sure which was the right answer. My father had just as many enemies as he had friends. Probably more.
“She’s just a photographer,” Tyler said. “Quit busting her balls and tell her yes or no. I’m in here on my day off.”
“Yeah, and why is that?” Chief asked.
“I owe her a favor,” Tyler said.
“Is that so?”
“Yeah. Can she shadow the crew and take pics or not?”
“Did she get her red card?”
“Chief,” Tyler said, exasperated.
“If she can show me how to send a twit, then yes.”
I took off my coat, handed it to Tyler, and walked around the desk, kneeling next to the superintendent. “Tweet, Chief. You tweet on Twitter. And you have to have an account to tweet. Fill this out.”
He tapped on the keyboard, following the steps to create an account.
“Click on that button,” I said, pointing. “Here, you can upload a photo. I bet you have your logo in your Pictures folder.” I clicked a few times, and like I’d thought, the Alpine Hotshot logo was in a file folder. One of their snapshots from the field made for a nice header photo, and then I stood. “All set.”
“All set for what?” Chief asked.
“Click on that icon, and type whatever you want.”
“Not whatever you want, Chief,” Tyler specified. “Type something associated with the hotshots, but no cuss words. And keep it under a hundred and forty characters.”
He wrinkled his nose. “A hundred and forty what?”
“Just write about that cleanup we helped with the other day. Or the food drive we’re doing this weekend. Tell them we’re ready for the upcoming fire season and post the group photo. Short and sweet.”
“Cleanups and food drives? You guys do stuff like that?” I asked.
“Yeah. All the time.” Tyler said the words as if I should have known.
After a knock on the door, a familiar voice began to speak. “Who’s the skirt?”
I turned to see Taylor standing in the doorway. It was downright unsettling how identical he was to Tyler.
I glared at him. “I’m not wearing a skirt, nor am I a skirt. And you know perfectly well who I am.”