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we made the cable news,” says Eric.
    “News is dumb,” says Corbin, and he slurps the last milk out of his bowl before he heads for the kitchen.
    When the channel flips, Eric’s right about the cable news. A dark column of smoke boils into the sky from the place where the Beaver Trap used to be. Then the scene switches to a pale girl, wide-set blue eyes staring at the camera. She is wearing a black vest. There are bright messes of color behind her. Red, white, and blue. Red, white, and black. Yellow, black, and green.
    “. . . claiming responsibility for the incident,” says the news anchor.
    I look at Eric. He’s stopped chewing. There is a trickle of milk running down his chin. His glasses are smudged, but I guess they are clean enough that he can see the TV, and he knows what he’s seen. We made the cable news alright.
    “Please,” I say. “Eric, I’m in trouble. I need help. Help me. Please.”

Bo brakes the bike fast. He’s teaching me another lesson in alert and ready. I don’t want my leg caught under there if he lays it down. He doesn’t. He just full stops and kills the motor. Then he points.
    There’s a clot of black smoke smearing away on the wind. Single-point origin, not a wildfire, at least not yet, nothing to fear. Except Bo’s back is tense, and he’s hissing at me, “We gotta get off the road.”
    Yes. Precaution. Sometimes they send out helicopters when there is a fire. Then I figure out it’s worse. Where that smoke is rising, that’s home.
    I want to hurry. I want to know. Bo doesn’t ask what I want; he just pushes the bike to the edge of the road and then down the steep bank into the brush under the trees. I trail after, slithering backward down the bank, covering up the tire tracks and the traces of my own footsteps. Those People might find our path if they are looking and they know what they want to see, but they are stupid. We are invisible to stupid people.
    Moving the dead-silent bike up and down the steep hills isn’t an option. Finding a place where nobody walks and nobody will see it is the best plan. It isn’t hard to do. We leave it under a deadfall deep in the ninebark brush. It’s only a few hundred yards from the road, but it passes the “what you can’t see can’t see you” test.
    Without the bike, we can move faster. We follow the deer paths when we can. Bo’s got the point. I follow his lead. It’s still a training day and asking questions is a violation. Bo can hit me if I ask questions. He’s authorized to do that when he has the com on training days.
    Bo gives me the belly-crawl gesture before we get to the top of the ridge behind the house. We aren’t going to stand up there, all obvious. Not until we know for sure what’s happening. So far, all we know for certain is there is black smoke rising. If the fire had moved into the trees we would have known. The smoke would have changed color and there would be more of it, but there is less smoke now and it is still black as a tire. Maybe that’s it. Maybe Da just built a tire fire as part of training day for me. I check behind me, all around me. If Da is sneaking up on me, I want to be looking. That would make him smile.
    Bo kicks me in the shoulder. I should have been looking at him. I should have been alert and ready, but looking at him. He points at his eyes and makes the sign for binos. I dig them out of the pack and hand them up to him. He gives me a stay sign and crawls forward to see what he needs to see.
    It takes a long time for him to see what he needs to see.
    “They’ve come,” Bo says. “Those People are here.”
    When I crawl forward on my elbows, I see for myself. The house is still burning, but they are pouring water on it. They are guys in yellow slickers. They are guys with uniforms and guns. They have fancy hats. They have rigs with stars on the doors. They have a big red truck that pumps water. I don’t see my Da anywhere, but maybe they have him trapped in one of those rigs.