Cole Henderson, 58, retired U.S. Forest Service ranger, leans against the splintered pine bar outside the local VFW, sweat sticking the collar of his faded 2019 fire crew shirt to the back of his neck. The air smells like charcoal, hickory smoked brisket, and cheap lager, the off-key twang of a local country band drifting over the crowd of locals gathered for the annual post-wildfire recovery fundraiser. He’s followed the same routine for seven years straight, ever since his wife Diane passed from ovarian cancer: write a check for $500, eat one brisket sandwich, nurse a single beer for 45 minutes, drive home to the empty cabin they built together, and fall asleep to old reruns of *Gunsmoke*. No exceptions, no detours, no unnecessary conversations with people who might try to set him up with their widowed sister or divorced coworker.
He reaches for the jar of dill pickles sitting at the edge of the bar at the exact same time a woman in well-worn work boots and a fire recovery crew hoodie does, their knuckles brushing hard enough to send a jolt up his forearm. Her hand is calloused, warm, dusted with pine sap at the cuticles, and when he looks up he freezes. It’s Mara Carter, Diane’s younger cousin, 49, who he hasn’t seen since Diane’s funeral, when she drove up from Texas, hugged him for ten seconds without saying a word, then vanished back across state lines before the sun came up the next day. She grins, the scar on her left cheek crinkling at the edge—souvenir from the time the three of them got lost hiking the backcountry in 2003, when she tripped over a downed log and sliced her face open on a sharp rock. “You still hoard pickles like they’re rations during a fire closure, huh?” she says, sliding onto the wobbly stool next to him so close her knee presses against his thigh through his worn denim jeans.