Rafe Sorenson, 53, retired U.S. Forest Service hotshot crew lead, sits hunched over a grease-stained paper plate at the Bend VFW’s Taco Tuesday, wiping sour cream off his calloused knuckles with a scratchy napkin. He’s only here because his back has been too sore to split wood all afternoon, and the tacos are three bucks apiece, better than anything he can throw together in the microwave at his empty cabin. The jukebox blares Johnny Cash deep cuts, the air smells like fried beef, cilantro, and beer sweat from the crews that just got off the Deschutes National Forest fire line three days prior. The AC is cranked too high, fogging the edges of the front windows, and every stool at the bar is taken by the time the door swings open again.
He doesn’t recognize her at first, until she stops two feet from his stool, grinning so wide the corners of her eyes crinkle. Lila Carter, his old crew foreman’s daughter, the last time he saw her she was 17, dyed blue hair, screaming at her dad for waving a foam finger at her high school graduation. Now she’s 38, a single streak of silver cutting through her chestnut hair, wearing a faded green flannel unbuttoned over a white tank, jeans that fit snug at the hips, work boots caked in mud from patching her dad’s fence that morning. The bar is so packed she doesn’t even ask before sliding onto the empty stool right next to him, her thigh brushing his when she shifts to get comfortable on the wobbly metal seat.