The world could not be filled with people more different than the ones covering it today. Surly people, gushing people, people with hearts like lions and others who could barely scrap out a �meow.� And attempting to love them all�what a task.
I met Alex on a wildfire we were both working on. It was a pretty weird one, and my first. I was nineteen years old, and pretty full of myself. As the years have passed, I look back at the girl I was and am glad for the changes inside myself. Today, I am going to share that story with you, share the discoveries that bring me to write this book�.
The thick crowds of dirty firefighters surged back and forth, their yellow shirts streaked with ash and soot, as well as their faces and forearms. Emily ignored them, her hot feet sticking to the soles of her Birkenstocks. Her own hands were dirty, with dust and soot extending up her arms, where it had snuck in under her sleeves. Hot and tired she ignored it and scuffled her way towards the tack board. Pushing tendrils of hair back, she focused on the list titled with a green marker. She skimmed the list, and turned away. Her name wasn�t on it yet. Walking towards the large building where she stored her clothing, she yawned and grimaced. It was the eleventh day on this fire, the Rattle Ridge Fire. She was beat.
The shower restored her somewhat, though she had to put her dirty pants back on. After the last six days they had become stiff and really nasty. She relished the thought of a clean pair, but not too much. Johnny, her engine leader, had warned her they could be here for a while. The last thing she really wanted was to feel too sorry for herself. Even thinking of it, tears welled up quickly. This was the eleventh day, and each day was up to fourteen hours long. She was really tired, and for Emily, really tired equated with easy tears and self-pity. Thinking this, she realized a moment of levity, and turned away from a sunburnt, hopelessly grubby reflection.
Do you recognize me? I�m already not the heroine you expected, am I? Lackluster, grubby, and self-pitying. Hang on, that�s what this story is about. Because I�m not the perfect heroine, and I can�t pretend I am.
The convicts looked as they usually did. They stood in a line behind the counter, doling out
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