I laugh out loud. I see the swirling horde reappear around his head, as if conjured out of thin air. It's a wonder they don't lift away his cap and scalp him for more blood. A steady wind would be an astounding gift, a blessing beyond all counting. He's 20 years old, a logger's kid, and in his second season as a wildland firefighter.
Today is another test.
Whiners don't last. A certain fortitude is mandatory. And even blackened trees and choking smoke sport a thin aura of romance, of tarnished glory. The planting ground is pure drudgery. Seedlings are crueler than fire.