Rain That Hasn't Fallen

The cabin smells like pine resin and old coffee. It is ten degrees hotter inside than out, which is impressive for a box with no insulation and one window. I am forty-three, currently unemployed as a dentist, and perched eight miles above the nearest paved road. I volunteered for this to escape my own noise. I underestimated the mountain.

Harry stands by the door. He is a smokejumper. The town sent him up because the forecast says dry lightning is coming. He is supposed to sit out the night with me so we don’t miss a strike. He is also the reason I have only one chair and one bed to share.

He is tall. Not model tall, but work tall. Shoulders that hold weight. His hands are large, the knuckles scarred from rope burns and brush, currently resting on the strap of his pack. He doesn’t look at the window. He looks at me. He is wearing a faded gray t-shirt that clings to his chest, and his hair is cut short, practical, dark against the pale wood of the wall. He smells like rain that hasn’t fallen yet.