Story code: ST-000180
Part 1: The Ceramic Lemon Tree
The glazed rim of the planter bit deep into Mateo’s calloused palms as he dragged the two-hundred-pound ceramic lemon tree across the travertine patio. A mile down the canyon, a wall of flame crested the ridge, turning the midday sky a bruised orange. Heat rolled off the inferno in suffocating waves, mixing with the heavy sweat soaking his Nomex shirt and thick orange pants. Ash fell like gray snow, settling on his reinforced shoulders.
He grunted, throwing his weight backward to slide the massive pot. The ceramic base ground against the stone deck.
“A little more to the left,” she instructed.
Mateo paused, his chest heaving, and looked toward the sliding glass doors. The homeowner stood safely in the threshold, holding the lapels of a jade-green silk robe closed while delicately gripping a glass of iced water. Condensation beaded against her manicured fingers. She took a slow sip, entirely unbothered by the roar of the firebreak operation echoing from the steep ravine below her estate.
Mateo planted his black boots and shoved the pot exactly three inches to the left.
The woman winced, pointing a French-tipped finger at the patio. She loudly complained about his muddy, ash-caked boots and the dark scuff marks he was leaving on her imported Italian tiles.
Mateo wiped soot and sweat from his forehead. Down below the property line, his crew was cutting a desperate trench through dense manzanita brush to starve the advancing blaze. Chainsaws whined continuously in the distance, a frantic chorus overlapping the crackle of burning timber. He needed to be down there with his Pulaski axe, hacking at roots. Instead, he was trapped up here. He had been pulled off the active fire line because the homeowner demanded someone secure her expensive outdoor decor before the aerial retardant drops ruined the finish on her imported pottery.
“Now the chaise lounges,” she ordered, gesturing toward a set of white chairs near the infinity pool. She complained that the falling ash was going to permanently stain the cushions.
Mateo locked his jaw. The thick smoke stung his eyes behind his safety goggles. He walked over to the heavy teak chairs and hauled them beneath the covered loggia. He kept his gaze lowered, focusing entirely on the burning ache in his thighs. It was safer to look at the ground. It was safer to stay absolutely quiet.
Every time he passed her standing in the doorway, the cheerful clinking of her ice cubes mocked the sandpaper dryness in his throat. He had been on the line for fourteen hours straight. The water in his plastic canteen was practically boiling against his hip. He hauled a wrought-iron side table across the deck, placing it precisely where she directed, then went back out into the ash fall for a heavy stone birdbath.
The roar from the canyon deepened into a monstrous rumble. The wind shifted abruptly, blowing ember-laced smoke directly over the pool.
“Hurry up,” she snapped, waving a hand in front of her face as if the toxic smoke was merely a bad odor. She ordered him to move the second lemon tree.
Mateo approached the twin ceramic pot. This one was visibly larger, easily pushing two hundred and fifty pounds. He grabbed the thick rim, bent his knees, and hoisted with everything he had left. His heavy boots dug into the smooth patio for traction. His leather grip slipped slightly on the sweat-slicked ceramic edge. The massive pot tilted, throwing him off balance. Before he could brace the weight, the heavy base slammed down hard against the patio floor.
A sharp cracking sound echoed clearly over the distant roar of the wildfire.
Mateo froze instantly. He looked down at the toe of his soot-stained boot. A jagged hairline fracture ran directly through the center of a pristine white travertine tile.
The ice in the woman’s glass stopped clinking.
She stepped out of the doorway, avoiding the drifting clumps of ash. She stared at the cracked tile for a long moment, then slowly raised her eyes to Mateo’s soot-streaked face. Her lips tightened into a thin line. She set her glass of iced water down on the outdoor kitchen counter with a sharp tap.
She crossed her arms over her silk robe, ignoring the massive column of black smoke rising just beyond her manicured property line. She told him the tile was irreplaceable and the entire deck would have to be torn up and re-leveled to fix his clumsy mistake.
Mateo kept his hands rigidly at his sides, staring blankly at her green lapels, desperately waiting for her to finish so he could get back down to the firebreak.
She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. She told him she knew exactly who he was and exactly what the bright orange uniform meant. She informed him that one phone call to the strike team captain would be more than enough to report him for malicious property destruction. She smiled coldly as she detailed exactly how easily she could get every single one of his good-time credits revoked, adding years back to his sentence over a single piece of stone.
Mateo felt the blood drain entirely from his face as she reached into the deep pocket of her robe and pulled out a silver cell phone.
The glazed rim of the planter bit deep into Mateo’s calloused palms as he dragged the two-hundred-pound ceramic lemon tree across the travertine patio. A mile down the canyon, a wall of flame crested the ridge, turning the midday sky a bruised orange. Heat rolled off the inferno in suffocating waves, mixing with the heavy sweat soaking his Nomex shirt and thick orange pants. Ash fell like gray snow, settling on his reinforced shoulders.
He grunted, throwing his weight backward to slide the massive pot. The ceramic base ground against the stone deck.
“A little more to the left,” she instructed.
Mateo paused, his chest heaving, and looked toward the sliding glass doors. The homeowner stood safely in the threshold, holding the lapels of a jade-green silk robe closed while delicately gripping a glass of iced water. Condensation beaded against her manicured fingers. She took a slow sip, entirely unbothered by the roar of the firebreak operation echoing from the steep ravine below her estate.
Mateo planted his black boots and shoved the pot exactly three inches to the left.
The woman winced, pointing a French-tipped finger at the patio. She loudly complained about his muddy, ash-caked boots and the dark scuff marks he was leaving on her imported Italian tiles.
Mateo wiped soot and sweat from his forehead. Down below the property line, his crew was cutting a desperate trench through dense manzanita brush to starve the advancing blaze. Chainsaws whined continuously in the distance, a frantic chorus overlapping the crackle of burning timber. He needed to be down there with his Pulaski axe, hacking at roots. Instead, he was trapped up here. He had been pulled off the active fire line because the homeowner demanded someone secure her expensive outdoor decor before the aerial retardant drops ruined the finish on her imported pottery.
“Now the chaise lounges,” she ordered, gesturing toward a set of white chairs near the infinity pool. She complained that the falling ash was going to permanently stain the cushions.
Mateo locked his jaw. The thick smoke stung his eyes behind his safety goggles. He walked over to the heavy teak chairs and hauled them beneath the covered loggia. He kept his gaze lowered, focusing entirely on the burning ache in his thighs. It was safer to look at the ground. It was safer to stay absolutely quiet.
Every time he passed her standing in the doorway, the cheerful clinking of her ice cubes mocked the sandpaper dryness in his throat. He had been on the line for fourteen hours straight. The water in his plastic canteen was practically boiling against his hip. He hauled a wrought-iron side table across the deck, placing it precisely where she directed, then went back out into the ash fall for a heavy stone birdbath.
The roar from the canyon deepened into a monstrous rumble. The wind shifted abruptly, blowing ember-laced smoke directly over the pool.
“Hurry up,” she snapped, waving a hand in front of her face as if the toxic smoke was merely a bad odor. She ordered him to move the second lemon tree.
Mateo approached the twin ceramic pot. This one was visibly larger, easily pushing two hundred and fifty pounds. He grabbed the thick rim, bent his knees, and hoisted with everything he had left. His heavy boots dug into the smooth patio for traction. His leather grip slipped slightly on the sweat-slicked ceramic edge. The massive pot tilted, throwing him off balance. Before he could brace the weight, the heavy base slammed down hard against the patio floor.
A sharp cracking sound echoed clearly over the distant roar of the wildfire.
Mateo froze instantly. He looked down at the toe of his soot-stained boot. A jagged hairline fracture ran directly through the center of a pristine white travertine tile.
The ice in the woman’s glass stopped clinking.
She stepped out of the doorway, avoiding the drifting clumps of ash. She stared at the cracked tile for a long moment, then slowly raised her eyes to Mateo’s soot-streaked face. Her lips tightened into a thin line. She set her glass of iced water down on the outdoor kitchen counter with a sharp tap.
She crossed her arms over her silk robe, ignoring the massive column of black smoke rising just beyond her manicured property line. She told him the tile was irreplaceable and the entire deck would have to be torn up and re-leveled to fix his clumsy mistake.
Mateo kept his hands rigidly at his sides, staring blankly at her green lapels, desperately waiting for her to finish so he could get back down to the firebreak.
She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. She told him she knew exactly who he was and exactly what the bright orange uniform meant. She informed him that one phone call to the strike team captain would be more than enough to report him for malicious property destruction. She smiled coldly as she detailed exactly how easily she could get every single one of his good-time credits revoked, adding years back to his sentence over a single piece of stone.
Mateo felt the blood drain entirely from his face as she reached into the deep pocket of her robe and pulled out a silver cell phone.