The Last Ten Minutes

The Edge of the Fireline

We’d been driving through smoke for miles — but now it wasn’t just smoke. It was embers on the wind. Glowing flecks flared past the windshield like insects lit from within. The sun was a red blister in the sky, barely visible through the haze. Inside the truck, it was quiet except for the voice on the radio.

“…—repeat, the fire has jumped containment at Sector Nine. All units, fall back to Ridgecrest. Do not attempt rescue operations beyond Fireline Delta. I say again—”

Tigere killed the volume with a jab of his thumb. “Goddammit,” he muttered. “That’s where we’re going.” He didn’t sound angry.

He sounded scared. And something else — like guilt, maybe. He reached for the thermos in the cupholder but didn’t drink.

Just held it. “She kept saying she’d be fine,” he added. “You remember that?”

I did. But I remembered him loading those bags of dog food into the truck last week, too — the way he always snuck them extra biscuits when he thought no one was looking.

Every breath tasted like old paper and gasoline. My eyes burned. So did the back of my throat. Every mile closer to the cabin made the question louder in my head — why the hell are we going back? But I already knew. It was her. Alice. And the dogs. “We told her we’d be an hour,” I said. My voice cracked. “Just an hour. Enough time to get signal, call it in, maybe grab gas. Coffee.”

“That was four hours ago.”

“She didn’t know that.”

Neither did we. The fire moved fast — faster than anyone expected. The evacuation order had gone from precaution to a deadline. Now it was a countdown. Tigere handed me the fire map from the dash. The kind printed in red and black zones with blinking GPS markers. I watched as the perimeter line updated — twice — while I held it.

“We’re cutting it too close,” I said. “If it wraps the road—”

“Ten minutes,” Tigere said, both hands clenched on the wheel. His knuckles were white. “That’s all we’ve got.”

“She won’t be ready.”

“She damn well better be.”

The truck bucked slightly as we hit a dip in the road. Tigere was doing eighty on a mountain road built for thirty. Pines blurred past us, scorched and skeletal. Everything we passed looked like it had already lost.

Maybe I had too. I closed my eyes. Tried not to picture her — Alice, barefoot in ash, dogs yelping in panic. Alone up there while we’d been down here telling ourselves it was “under control.” “She won’t leave them,” I muttered.

“What?”

“The dogs. She won’t leave them.”

Tigere didn’t answer at first. Then — “Remember when they were pups? She had that one — the shepherd — sleeping on the goddamn couch like a person. I told her it’d wreck the cushions. She told me I could sleep outside if I had a problem.” He smiled, briefly. Then it was gone. “Damn dog used to sleep on my boots.”

A fresh plume of smoke curled into the sky ahead of us. Bright. Angry. The wind had shifted. I glanced at the dashboard — outside temp was climbing. One hundred and five. And rising. We reached the cabin in just under twelve minutes. It looked like something out of a dream — or a nightmare — frozen in haze. The porch light was on.

That was good. Smoke curled over the trees in thick veils. Helicopters droned overhead, like insects scraping the sky. I jumped out first. The dogs were barking from the kennel. The front door was cracked open.

“Alice!” I shouted.

She appeared in the doorway, barefoot, covered in ash, a leash in each hand and a third in her teeth. “You came back,” she said, like she didn’t believe it.

“Of course we came back.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

I looked at the kennel. Three more dogs inside, whining, pawing at the fence. Tigere ran up behind me, chest heaving.

“We need to go. Now.”

“I’m getting them,” Alice said. She bent to clip the last leash on a trembling husky. “Help me.”

“You said ten minutes,” I snapped. “We’ve still got—”

“Look!” Tigere pointed toward the ridge.

Over the trees, orange bloomed. The fire wasn’t behind us anymore. It was here. Alice turned to me, wide-eyed. “I can’t carry them all.”

“We’ll take them in the truck.”

“There’s no room. The back’s full of gear, remember?”

Tigere swore and ran for the tailgate. He started throwing things — a jerry can, the tool chest, camping supplies. Each thud against the dirt felt like a protest. A refusal. But not just at the fire. “They used to ride back here, remember?” he said. “First time we brought ‘em up, they puked on everything. We didn’t even care. We can fit some,” he muttered. “We can make it work.”

Alice dragged one dog forward. “Soccer won’t walk,” she said. “She’s too scared.”

I looked at her — the big husky, trembling, tail tucked. Her muzzle had gone gray over the last year, and her hips had started to go in winter. But that wasn’t why she wouldn’t walk. She was waiting. Waiting for someone who wasn’t coming back. “She used to be Phillip's, didn’t she?” I asked quietly.

Alice nodded, eyes wet. “Yeah. Before he — before.”

I remembered the day he brought her home. Barely out of puppyhood. All paws and wild eyes. He’d said she was too much dog for him, but he never went anywhere without her after that.

When he died, she stopped eating for three days.

“I can carry her,” I said.

Alice hesitated. “You sure?”

“I owe her,” I said. I didn’t mean just her.

Soccer was heavy, but familiar. I’d carried her once before — the day Phillip got sick, when she wouldn’t leave his bed. She’d growled at the EMTs. Bit one of them. I’d lifted her then too. Same weight. Same eyes.

She whimpered as I hoisted her onto my shoulders, breath warm on my neck. I could feel her heart hammering against mine.

Tigere looked at us, then at the fire. His eyes were bloodshot. His breath came in short, ragged bursts. “We don’t have time for this,” he said. “We’ve already lost too much—”

Tigere opened his mouth. Closed it. Then- “It’s either her or me…” He didn’t say it loud.

Didn’t even look at me when he said it.

But I knew what he meant. Not just the fire. Not just the dogs. Alice.

And there it was — the war in his face.

He’d been the one who convinced Alice to get the dogs in the first place. Who patched up Soccer’s paw last winter. Who taught Max to sit. “I didn’t come back to leave you here,” he said. There was something raw in his voice now. “I didn’t come back to do that.”

“Then stay,” I said. But my voice didn’t sound sure. Not even to me. A beat passed. Just one. Long enough to picture it — the truck, the road, the fire shrinking in the mirrors. Long enough to wonder if staying meant dying.

He was already walking. I took a step — half a step — after him. Then I stopped. “But if I die here, it doesn’t help anyone,” he said.

No one answered. The only sounds were fire cracking in the trees and the dogs whining at our feet.

“I’m sorry,” he said. And he meant it. That was the worst part. He looked at Soccer.

“Dumb mutt. Should’ve let you ruin the boots.” He got into the truck. It idled, engine shivering like it didn’t want to go either. Then he drove. Dust and ash rose behind him. And he was gone.

I turned to Alice.

“How many can you carry?

“One on foot. Maybe two if I can leash the others.”

“Then we make it work.”

“You’re staying?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m staying.”

The fire was close now — close enough to feel on our skin. We didn’t talk. We moved. Leashes in hand. One tied to my belt. Soccer refused to walk, so I lifted her onto my shoulders again. She whimpered the whole time, warm breath on my cheek. The road was a furnace. We cut through the woods, aiming for the eastern ridge. If we could reach the service road in time, we might have a shot. I didn’t check my watch. Time had unraveled. Every sound was the roar of death. Every shadow a trick. The fire didn’t creep — it hunted. Trees burst into flame like they’d been waiting for it. Rabbits, deer — animals raced past us in blind, panicked streaks. Alice tripped once. Skinned her knee. Didn’t stop. We moved like ghosts. Smoke curled around us. Ash fell like black snow. We reached the service road as the sun vanished behind a wall of smoke. And we weren’t alone. A truck sat parked under the trees. Not Tigere’s. Older. Rusted. One tire half-flat. A deer skull hung from the rearview mirror like a warning.

I looked at Alice. “Keys?”

She ran to it, yanked the door — and screamed. A man slumped inside. Burned. His hands curled against the steering wheel. Skin split and blackened. He might’ve died waiting for someone to come back. The keys were still in the ignition. She froze. I didn’t. I reached in. The metal was hot — too hot.

Burned the skin of my palm. I hissed, but pulled them anyway and shoved her toward the passenger side. “Move.”

We threw the dogs in the bed. Alice climbed in, holding Soccer like a child. I got behind the wheel and turned the key. The engine coughed. Choked. Died.

“No…” I tried again. Click. Nothing. The woods behind us were no longer woods.

They were flame. Orange bloomed in the mirrors. Smoke punched through the air like fists. I wiped my palm on my shirt, gritted my teeth, and tried again. The engine sputtered — then caught. I didn’t wait. We peeled out, tires kicking up ash and dirt. One of the dogs howled. Alice was shaking, still holding Soccer close. We drove. Through fire. Past trees that exploded as we passed. Once, a bear — or what had been a bear — ran across the road ahead of us, its back aflame, mouth open in a silent scream. I don’t remember how long. But when we reached the base of the mountain, the world opened up again. Blue. Real blue.

We rolled to a stop on the shoulder of a county road. Just sat there. The dogs were quiet. Alice was crying.

In the distance, a siren wailed — faint, then closer. Not coming for us, not yet. But someone else was still out there. Still running. Behind us, the ridge was ash, and the air stank of it. Smoke still smeared the horizon. A hawk circled overhead, confused or hunting.

I didn’t say anything. What could I say?

Tigere was gone. The fire hadn’t stopped.

But we were alive. They were alive.

That night, we camped in the truck bed, overlooking a lake that hadn’t burned yet.

The dogs huddled close. Their warmth was proof — some things are worth staying for.

Alice broke the silence once.

“I would’ve stayed alone, you know.”

“I know,” I said.

“But I’m glad I didn’t have to.”

So was I.