Eli saw Manny fumble with his shelter. Saw Leo freeze—just for a second—and in that second, the fire’s advance wave hit.

“You’ve told me a hundred times.”

Eli didn’t think. He tackled Leo to the ground, rolled on top of him, and yanked the shelter over both of them. The heat was instant—an oven door slammed shut on hell. The sound was worse: a freight train made of screams and splintering rock.

Then, silence.

Only the brave, Eli thought. But he knew the truth now, if he hadn’t before.

The fire passed.

Eli Turner had been a hotshot for eleven years, and he’d learned to read fire the way sailors read the sea. But this one was different. This one had a name now: the Bishop Ridge Fire. It had started as a flicker from a careless cigarette, but by the time Eli’s crew rolled in, it was a beast with a thousand hungry tongues.

“Nervous is smart,” Eli said. “Scared is useless. You know the difference?”