A Memory Worth Dying For by Joanie Bruce

it felt like to be in love.
    Suddenly, he sat up. Quickly he pulled open the top drawer and rubbed his face between his thumb and fingers. He should have done this months ago.

TEN
    GERALD SAID A QUICK PRAYER when his neighbors grew restless in the sweltering auditorium. Anger was not the solution. They had to work together in order to solve this wildfire problem.
    “Hold on, hold on!” The face of the Sander County Fire Chief, Bud Greeson, flushed red as he held both hands in the air and waved them at the men filling half the auditorium. The white shirt of his uniform was dark and sweaty around the armpits and collar.
    He waved his right hand and tried to get the attention of the angry crowd. “Please, calm down. I called this meeting to assure everyone that we’re fighting this wildfire with everything we have. Losing your tempers is not the solution.”
    Shane Duke stood up and raised his voice to be heard over the others mumbling in the background. “Well, anger is all we have right now, Bud. You said you’re fighting it with everything you have, but that isn’t enough. The fire’s growing every day. It’ll be at Gerald’s in a week or two if we don’t stop it or the wind don’t change. If the wind changes, my farm will be next—or the Mayberry’s. We thought the state fire marshal was coming in to bring us reinforcements. Now we hear he didn’t even care enough to show up.”
    Bud drew in a deep breath before he spoke. “I told you Shane, his plane had engine problems. He’ll be here in a day or two.”
    Gerald cringed as the crowd grew more restless, then he stood and pushed to the end of the aisle. “Look, Bud. We know you’re trying, but next week might be too late for some of us. Even if the wind changes, it’ll still sweep across somebody’s farm. And a lot more is at stake than a barn or a bunch of sheds—our livelihoods and our homes are in danger. Can you assure us it’ll be stopped before it destroys our lives?”
    The crowd mumbled in agreement.
    Bud looked tired and deflated. Gerald felt sorry for the man. It looked as if he knew he couldn’t offer a solution. “We’re doing the best we can.” He held his hands, palm up, as if defeated.
    Shane’s protest was subdued but firm when he stepped back into the conversation. “Then you need to get men in here from other states for backup. Our men are tired, and that fire is spreading. Not only are our farms in danger, but if the fire spreads outward, the town itself could be burned. Our men can’t fight twenty-four hours a day, Bud. They need rest. Can’t we ask neighboring states for mutual aide? Maybe some of us should step in and help where we can so we don’t feel helpless standing around watching our homes and businesses burn.”
    “Hold on a minute!” Bud pushed around the podium and walked to the edge of the platform. “That’s unacceptable, Shane. Don’t panic and do something you might regret. You’re not trained firefighters—neither are your men. We don’t want people getting lost in the middle of a wildfire, getting hurt . . . or worse. Let us do our jobs. Please.”
    Several of the men started arguing among themselves.
    Max Gibson, a small, muscled-looking man with a long white beard, stepped forward. “I’d like to say somethin’, Mr. Greeson; I’ve been Mr. Gerald’s stable manager for over thirty-two years. It’s all I know how to do. If we don’t get this fire under control, not only will Mr. Gerald lose his barn and his home, but all of us stable hands will lose our jobs. We’d be willin’ to help if we can.”
    The crowd mumbled agreement.
    Bud planted his feet on the ground and looked over the crowd. “Max, I know you’re worried about your job. Shane, Gerald, I know you and a lot of other farm owners here are frustrated and worried about your farms, but we’re gradually beatin’ this thing. It’s better than it was yesterday, in spite of what you think. We have it thirty-five percent