Chapter 5 - The Descent to Auburn
County emergency services—CAL FIRE ground crews cutting firebreaks with heavy bulldozers—reached Camp Red Pine at 4:30 PM.
We were loaded into the back of a green heavy-duty utility truck along with the remaining children and driven down the winding, debris-strewn switchbacks of Highway 49 toward the evacuation staging area at Auburn Municipal Airport.
The journey down the mountain was a visual inventory of loss. Entire groves of ancient oaks stood like charred toothpicks against the orange haze. Power poles leaned at crazy angles, their thick cables snapping and sparking against the dry earth.
When our truck finally rolled onto the tarmac at Auburn Municipal, the staging area was a chaotic hive of flashing red lights, news vans, and emergency personnel.
I stepped down from the truck bed, keeping one hand firmly on Caleb’s shoulder. My legs felt like lead. My skin was caked in black soot, and my eyes burned from hours of smoke exposure.
"Natalie!"
A voice cut through the clamor of sirens and generators.
Ryan was striding across the tarmac toward us, still wearing his Nomex flight suit, his helmet tucked under his arm. His face was a mask of professional relief.
"Thank God," he said, reaching out to grab my shoulders. "When the ridge flashed over, dispatch lost your coordinates. I tried to refuel and turn back immediately, but the FAA grounded all private air traffic in the sector due to zero-visibility thermal inversion. I've been going crazy trying to find out if—"
I didn't let him finish the sentence.
I raised my right hand and struck him across the face with the full force of every ounce of adrenaline, exhaustion, and fury stored in my body.
Crack.
The sound was sharp enough to cut through the hum of the idling generators.
Ryan staggered back a half-step, his hand coming up to touch his stinging cheek. He didn't look angry; he looked stunned, his professional composure fracturing for the first time.
"Natalie," he whispered, glancing around to see if anyone from the flight crew was watching. "What the hell is wrong with you? You're safe. Caleb is safe. Why would you—"
"You left us," I said. My voice wasn't loud, but it carried a deadly, vibrating stillness that made him stop talking.
"I transported critical patients—"
"You transported your ex-girlfriend because you couldn't bear the thought of anything happening to Brooke Palmer while your own son stood ten feet away begging you not to leave him in the fire."
"That is complete bullshit," Ryan snapped, his voice rising, defensive anger finally replacing his clinical detachment. "Chloe had asthma! It was a triage call!"
"Then why didn't you come back?" I asked, stepping closer to him, backing him toward the nose of a parked ambulance. "You said twelve minutes, Ryan. Twelve minutes. You had fuel, you had a certified machine, and the FAA didn't ground traffic until nearly two o'clock. But you didn't turn around. You flew to Auburn, you helped Brooke check her niece into the triage tent, you sat with her while she drank a cup of coffee, and you convinced yourself that we were already dead so you wouldn't have to face what you chose to do."
May you like
Ryan opened his mouth, but no words came out.
Because he knew I was right.
