Page 48 of Love Again

But the coughing was too much. He couldn’t get his gloves off to unlatch his helmet.

“We’re going to stop in a minute.”

The orange wall kept wafting and blowing in the rearview mirror. Twice, I turned around thinking I’d outran it. I flipped on the GPS to see how far it was to asphalt.

In the meantime, he was trying to get a seat belt on, which was nearly impossible in the heavy gloves and gear. We were being thrown around inside the truck. The access road was purely for access and was full of pits, gullies, and troughs. My suspension was already shot.

Finally, we got to a T in the road, and I bore left. This was an actual dirt road, well maintained and smooth. I started to shout again and realized it was unnecessary. “We need to stop and do a med check.”

The guy either nodded or shook his head—hard to tell. Either way, it was happening.

I had two quarts of potable water for drinking, an extra filter, a first aid bag, four small canisters of oxygen, and a double-sealing silicone mask for delivery. He needed a stream of high-flow oxygen then rather than later.

The coughing stopped, and then he clawed at the cage over his face as another hacking cough began, but this time, blood sprayed, sprinkling the dashboard. He moaned. Up ahead was a turn out with a culvert.

That probably meant running water. In five seconds, the truck slammed into the soft gravel on the side of the road, and I set the brake. Leaving the engine running in case we needed another fast escape, I flung open my door, grabbed the medic kit and canister from under my seat, and ran around the front of the truck. I made a mental note of the stream—white water gushing and flowing, a different roar than the fire and so much softer.

The door stuck for a moment. It was still hot to the touch, and paint bubbled on the top edges of the bed.

“Shit,” he said as the door pulled open. His voice was so hoarse I could barely make out the next, “Fuck me.”

I turned his legs toward me. To treat him, I needed to get him out of the truck, out of his gear, and do a quick assessment. The coughing was continuous. More blood sprayed against his gloved hand. He was holding it up to the mesh in a futile effort to cover his mouth.

“Can you get out of the truck?”

He nodded and started to slide out.

That was when I realized how small he was—five foot one, two, maybe. He must have weighed about as much as the hundred and ten pounds we’re required to suit up in.

But as soon as his feet touched the ground, his knees buckled.

I grabbed him by the armpits and lifted him back onto the seat.

As I gripped him, his rib cage convulsed with each powerful cough. I had to get him out of his gear.

Reaching up, I started to remove the helmet. “Easy,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. It was hard to slide it off when he was coughing so hard that he was almost completely doubled over.

I set the helmet down on the floor of the truck and started taking off the gloves. He was still doubled over, hacking, so I focused on the gloves. After a little tugging, one slipped off and then the other, and two small, tan hands were revealed.

Now, when he raised his hand to his mouth, he wiped the blood on his pants.

I started working the snaps—no, zippers—around his collar. We all make our own outfits, so everyone’s is a little different. It was as he started to tip his head back and look up at me that I realized it was a woman.

Not a guy.

There are only a handful of women smokejumpers. They are legendary.

“Jesus,” I said, and she flashed me a dark look, clapped her hand over her mouth, and coughed some more.

She was wheezing now—not a good sign. Pushing her up into a sitting position again, I continued to unzip her gear. Underneath, she had on a cotton T-shirt. I started to pull her arms through and out of the jacket.

“I—can’t—breathe,” she said in fits. She looked wide-eyed and reached to grab me.

Moving as fast as I could, I grabbed the coupling link, pulled out the silicone mask, turned on the oxygen, and placed it against her face.

Within seconds, her eyes were closed. She was coughing under the mask, and I kept it pressed hard to her face with my other hand supporting her head. It took me a long time to realize I was speaking to her.

“Just take it easy. I know it’s hard. Don’t try to control your breathing. If you need to cough, go ahead. This isn’t a competition. Don’t hold it in. That’s right. In and out. In and out . . .”