Maybe I’m a little extra sensitive to flames, considering my van just spontaneously combusted.
I’m pretty sure there shouldn’t be anything burning out there at this time of night, though.
And even with the little hills of snow dotted everywhere, something feels off.
There’s a lot of dry branches and dead leaves. A lot that could catch flame and spin wildly out of control.
“Crap,” I mutter.
Setting my mug on the counter, I grab my coat, and then shove my feet into my battered old hiking boots before pulling a messy hand-crocheted cap over my hair and ducking out into the cold.
It only takes a minute to bustle across the field and hop the fence. The woods run along the other side of the dirt path. As I slip into the trees, I realize I’m not alone.
Voices.
Oh, crud.
I may be somewhere I don’t belong, but…
Just to be safe, I’d better check things out and make sure no one’s out here about to burn the forest down.
So I dial it down, slipping from a walk into a creep.
This isn’t new. It’s not like I haven’t snuck around forests myself for years, from exploring for hidden caves to slipping out in the dead of night to get a certain flower for a special oil.
I’m silent as I make my way through the trees, making sure to keep tree trunks between me and the flicker of golden orange drifting through the branches. The biting, crisp scent of smoke hits my nose.
Edging over, I peer around a tree trunk, taking a good, long look.
The scene in front of me looks familiar.
Because I’ve done this a lot over the years, too.
Starting in high school and never really stopping, from sneaking out with my friends to not being so sneaky in college to meeting up with a random Roma caravan out in the Ozarks and staying for a drink and a song.
Five kids sit around a bonfire on fallen logs and rocks. Three girls and two boys.
The one who stands out the most is a tall, reedy-looking girl with a shock of pale purple hair, shaved in the back but long in the front and falling into her face, the tips dyed pink, much brighter than mine.
It’s punky and cute, and it makes me smile at her ragged eighties throwback style.
And it’s not hard to tell she’s into the super tall, artsy-looking boy with a ragged pile of platinum hair sitting on the log next to hers.
Even as she swigs from a bottle of something clear and passes it to him, she won’t look at him.
And he won’t look at her.
I try not to giggle. It’s funny how teenagers always think they’re going to fall in love by completely ignoring each other, but it’s plenty adorable.
“I’m bored,” one of the other girls says. “There’s nothing fun around here anymore. Used to be you could at least go hunting for the monster in the woods.”
“Some monster,” the other boy says, a small dark-haired kid with a snub nose. “Turned out to be some burned dude. ‘Mr. Regis’ or whatever the fuck they’re calling him now.”
“Stop it,” the purple-haired girl snaps. “He’s a nice guy and he helped save the town. Leave him alone. He’s got a lot of really cool stories. Like, he was in some freaky CIA thing.”
“Hey,” the blond boy says, standing with the bottle. “You’re bored? Watch this.”
He takes a swig, then sets it down, wedging it into the snow next to his log before leaning forward and plucking a twig from the burning bonfire.
Oh.
Oh no.
I know what he’s about to do.
He holds the twig in front of his face, then blows hard, spraying fine particles of liquor.
They catch on the twig and ignite into a roaring blaze. It seriously looks like he’s breathing fire in a plume that lights up the night in dancing orange.
The other kids gasp, letting out excited shouts, and the purple-haired girl looks up at him with total adoration, her eyes shining.
To a starry-eyed teenager, it’s pretty cool.
But kids their age shouldn’t be messing with stuff like that surrounded by trees.
I’m torn.
I’ve done my fair share of stupid stuff. It’s part of growing up. Part of finding myself. I don’t want to ruin it for someone else.
I also don’t want to be the moron who looked the other way while a bunch of kids started a wildfire that takes down half the town.
So I rock back on my heels, thinking how to approach them. Only for my boot to catch on a thick branch and snap it in half.
Even with the crackle of Senor Firespout over there, the noise zips through the night.
The kids tense, bolting upright, scattering like alley cats in police headlights.
Including the firestarter kid, gasping and choking as his plume sputters out…and the rapid whip of his head sends sparks flying freaking everywhere.