The radio crackled around the time he was going into service, and Tiny’s voice from down below gave him a head’s up to expect a scout troop within the hour. Sam scowled, feeling the scar tissue pulling at the skin on the left side of his face. He hated having people invade the tower; it was his space, his sanctuary. But of course, it wasn’t, not really. It was a job. And visitors were part of the job. Few of them stayed long anyway, after they’d met him.
At about nine-thirty, Sam heard the clatter of feet outside, along with the usual pre-adolescent griping about the absurd number of stairs that had to be climbed to reach the top of the tower. He grabbed his Yankees cap, a souvenir of a long-ago trip to the Big Apple—a place far, far away from these woods in the Black Mountains of Wyoming, both geographically and spiritually—and tugged it down low over his forehead. The shadow it cast didn’t so much hide as soften the effect of his disfigurement. For Sam, this fire tower was as close as he could get to hiding, and as evidenced by the gangly figures currently wandering around the catwalk outside, it wasn’t close enough.
Sam went out the door and greeted Dennis, the scout leader, and the two women with him, probably mothers to one or another of the shouting, laughing boys they were attempting to herd. He had met Dennis before, but the moms were new, and didn’t do a very good job of covering up their shock at the sight of his face.
“Hey, Sam,” Dennis said cheerfully. The scoutmaster was a thin, energetic man who ran the general store in the nearest town. He happily made up boxes of groceries and necessities for Sam and had them delivered to the tower so Sam didn’t have to come into town as often; the two men got along well. “This is Claire and Felicia. They’re helping me out today. Ladies, this is Sam Corbett. He’s manning the fire tower this season; it’s his second year here, so he’s practically an old pro.”
“Hello,” Sam said. He didn’t say much these days, not liking the permanent raspiness of his voice, damaged by the smoke he’d inhaled at the same time his face had been burned. He’d give the boys the tour, but Dennis would do most of the talking. The gregarious store owner didn’t mind, and it made things easier for everyone.
“Hi,” Felicia said, looking at the view instead of at him. She was a little plump, and still trying to catch her breath from the climb. “Thanks for having the boys here. I can’t believe anyone lives up in this tower for four months. Don’t you get lonely? I’d never be able to stand it.”
Sam shrugged. “I get more visitors than you’d think,” he said. There was no point in adding that he preferred the solitude; loneliness was a constant companion, no matter where he lived. “And someone needs to watch for fires. I’m happy to do it.”
Claire, the other mother, had been studying him unobtrusively, eyes hidden behind big designer sunglasses. She was blonde and pretty, and stood a little too close for comfort. Sam had met her type before, and he had a bad feeling about what was coming.
Sure enough, she pulled off the glasses and stared at him more openly. “Sam Corbett. Weren’t you one of the Hotshots crew they called in a few years ago to deal with that terrible forest fire up on the ridge? I remember reading about what happened.”
He kept his expression neutral through long practice. “Yes I was, ma’am. Shall we gather up the boys now?”
Felicia clapped her hands to her mouth. “Oh. Oh, that explains the . . . I mean, oh, dear, I’m sorry. For, you know, the fire and everything.” Tears sprang into her eyes and Sam’s stomach knotted. He didn’t know which reaction he hated worse—the voracious interest or the pity.
“Hazards of the job,” he said, as he always did. “I got off easier than some.”
Dennis rescued him, blowing a whistle to bring the scouts over for their informative tour of the tower.
“Boys,” the scoutmaster said, “this is Mr. Corbett. He’s going to tell you all about his job as a fire spotter, and show you how he watches out for fires so he can keep the forest—and us—safe.”
“Do you have to run down all those stairs to put out the fires?” one skinny boy asked with a hint of awe. He was staying well back from the railing, unlike some of the others. Not everyone liked the heights up there, but they’d never bothered Sam. Heights didn’t scare him. Nothing scared him anymore. He’d already been through the worst and survived. More or less.
“He doesn’t put the fires out himself, stupid,” one of the other boys said with a sneer. “Real firemen do that. He just sits up here with a pair of binoculars and watches.”
“Now Tommy,” Dennis said, with the air of someone who has repeated himself so often, the response was automatic. “We don’t call anyone stupid, do we? And Mr. Corbett’s job is just as important as that of the people who actually put out the fires. In a way, he is a firefighter too.”
Sam tried not to grimace, hearing the echo of his own voice inside his head. That was the same thing he told himself every day. That the job he was doing was vital to the effort; that he was still doing his part, in the only way he still could. It was the only thing that kept him going.
The problem was, he didn’t really believe it, any more than that young scout did.