Wildfire Risk: A Slow Burn
My alarm went off at stupid-o'clock, that brutal 5:45 AM summer weekday wakeup call that still somehow surprised me after three seasons. I silenced it before it could piss off Mrs. Cho downstairs, who'd already threatened to report me to strata over ‘hiking boots that sound like dinosaur stomps.’
I lay there for half a breath, then swung my legs out from under the sweat-damp sheets. The East Vancouver apartment already smelled like August: hot concrete, wildfire smoke, and something sharp and tired that clung to the corners of the room.
After washing my face, I flicked on the TV for background noise while getting dressed. Global News Morning showed near-empty bridges and tunnels at this hour, then cut to yesterday's tragedy:
"....identified as 18-year-old Chase Gleason, honor student and baseball standout from Burnaby Mountain Secondary..."
A photo of Chase in his graduation robes filled the screen, his smile wide and hopeful.
My fingers fumbled at the buttons on my ranger shirt. I’d seen this cycle before: the news would milk it for a few days, Maintenance would repair the fence and add more warning signs nobody would read. By August, teenagers even younger than Chase, younger than Drew, would be back diving at Twin Falls like nothing had ever happened.
I wondered if Drew had seen the news last night or this morning. If he'd slept at all.
My phone buzzed on the bathroom counter: Dean's briefing for everyone on the morning shift.
2 overdoses overnight on the North Shore. Bylaw sweep of the bottom of Lower Seymour and Inter River Park. Meet at 0715. Bring water bottles.
My stomach churned. Fire season protocols meant confiscating survival gear from people who barely had enough to live on.
The park didn’t have sprawling camps like Bowser Island, but even a few scattered tents were enough to raise alarms. One careless flame could level the entire watershed. One bad hit of fentanyl could mean another body bag. It gutted me almost as much as dragging kids out of the canyon.
I downed the last of my coffee, grimacing at the cold sludge at the bottom.
Another glamorous day protecting nature from humans, and humans from themselves.
At least I wasn't stuck behind a desk with the poor bastards at the Ministry of Forests.
I threw on my ballcap, grabbed my gear, and headed for the truck. The Chevy Colorado still carried a trace of sun-warmed skin and hoodie cotton: Drew’s scent. I let it hang there for a few seconds as I pulled out of my parking spot.
The drive-up was muscle memory. Past the early morning lineup at the Tim Hortons, across the Iron Workers Bridge, the North Shore mountains rising out of the haze like a half-forgotten promise.
The upper lot by the Ecology Centre was already starting to fill up with hikers trying to beat the heat. I swung into my usual spot below the ranger station, cut the engine, and sat for half a second, bracing myself for the day ahead.
Dean was already out front, leaning against the District pickup, sunglasses pushed up onto his forehead, coffee in hand. Maya stood nearby, arms folded, her radio clipped to her belt, tapping one boot impatiently against the curb.
I grabbed my pack and jogged over.
"Morning," Dean said, voice rough from too little sleep. Probably the news reporters calling him last night for a soundbite about 'safety concerns.'
"Morning," I echoed.
Maya gave me a small smirk. "You look better than you sounded yesterday."
"Thanks. You’re a real ray of sunshine." I slung my pack onto one shoulder. "What’s the plan?"
Dean handed me a printout: a bylaw report marked in red Sharpie. “Inter River Park sweep first. Bylaw flagged a couple of tents along the riverbed. Fire season means no tolerance this week. You, me, and Maya are paired with AN from Bylaws today."
I sighed. I didn’t mind Andrew Ngyuen (AN), he was quick on his feet and didn’t pick stupid fights, but these sweeps always felt like crap, even when necessary. Confiscating propane tanks and heaters from people with nowhere else to go never sat right.
We piled into Dean’s District Parks truck, a battered white F-250 with the municipal crest peeling off the door, Maya riding shotgun. I squeezed into the back seat with the paperwork binder sliding across my lap every time Dean took a corner too fast.
The air conditioning barely kept up with the morning heat already pressing in. I cracked the back window a couple of inches, letting in the sharp bite of evergreens and the distant tang of salt from the inlet.
The bottom of Lower Seymour Reserve wasn’t far, maybe ten minutes down the mountain and back across the Upper Levels Highway, but we still passed plenty: thick residential sprawl trying to claw its way into the trees, strip malls just waking up, the broad glass facade of the newly constructed condo towers at the bottom of Mountain Highway catching the early sun.
Maya scrolled through her phone, checking the latest wildfire advisories, but my gaze caught on the big blue-and-white sign: Capilano University.
I thought of Drew.
Eighteen, barely out of high school, about to start classes here in a few weeks.
So close, just a stone’s throw from where we were headed now.
Where tents hid in the brush, and discarded needles lined the creek beds.
I wondered if he knew.
I wondered if he ever would.
Dean pulled off Lillooet Road, the pavement cracked and narrowing as the campus fell away behind us. We rattled past the North Shore Cricket Club, the manicured green field empty this early, and deeper into the woods.
Two District Bylaw SUVs were already parked near the trail gate, engines idling low. A familiar RCMP cruiser sat behind them, beside it was Sergeant Leroux, same mirrored sunglasses, same no-nonsense posture, standing square with arms folded like he was daring the forest to misbehave. He gave Dean a small nod of recognition, curt but unmistakable.
Dean returned it with a casual two-finger salute through the windshield, not something you learn at Depot, but the kind of respect exchanged between people who’ve seen the worst parts of the same job.
Then Dean swung the truck into the gravel pullout and killed the engine.
“Alright,” he said, grabbing the binder from my lap and flipping it open. “Plan’s simple. Bylaws lead, RCMP backs us if anything gets dicey. We document everything, tents, fires, hazards, and post notices where needed.”
He looked up, serious. "We don't escalate unless we have to. Copy?"
"Copy," Maya and I echoed together.
I shrugged on my radio harness and followed them out into the thick green air.
Another week. Another sweep.
And somewhere, barely a few blocks away, a kid named Drew was probably still snoring, unaware of how fast everything in this city could slip sideways.
The air in the forest was already thick, humid, heavy with the faint tang of woodsmoke carried from wildfires a province away. Dean and Maya fell into step ahead of me, their boots crunching through pine needles and old gravel as we moved toward the brush line.
Andrew was waiting by the first bylaws SUV, a crisp white bylaws uniform shirt, a clipboard tucked under one arm, and a radio slung across his chest. He looked about as tired as the rest of us, dark circles visible even behind his sunglasses.
"Morning," he greeted. His voice was even, but I could hear the exhaustion tucked beneath it. "District Fire wants a full sweep. Anything that could spark has to go. No exceptions."
Dean nodded. "Copy. Let's make it quick."
The plan was simple: two by two, staggered a few meters apart, weaving along the service trail behind the Cricket Club and down toward the Lower Seymour riverbed. We weren't looking to roust anyone unless we had to. Just document, post warnings, confiscate obvious hazards, and let the RCMP handle any bigger issues.
The ground sloped sharply downward, the air growing cooler as we dipped under the dense conifer canopy. Hidden from the public walking trails, the first camp appeared: a battered two-person tent tucked behind a fallen log, camouflaged with a tarp and stitched-together garbage bags.
Maya whistled low under her breath. "Someone tried hard to stay hidden."
I knelt, snapping a few photos for the report: no fire pit, but a battered camp stove and a small stack of propane canisters lined up beside the tent. That was enough for an automatic seizure under the new fire ban.
Dean stapled a neon orange sign to the tree trunk: DNV TEMPORARY REMOVAL NOTICE – FIRE RISK. Not an eviction, but it meant anything flammable was getting removed during the ban.
We moved deeper into the woods. Another tent. Then two more clustered near an overgrown drainage ditch. Most were abandoned, moldy tarps flapping loosely, busted coolers strewn across the ground, needles glinting under patches of sunlight.
Everywhere the city pretended didn’t exist, it did.
Halfway through the second sweep, as I hauled a rusty propane tank onto the trail for disposal, my radio crackled.
"Command to Parks One, RCMP advises we have a report of a fresh camp near the BMX track. You close?"
Dean clicked his mic. "We're two minutes out. We'll check it."
He waved for Maya and me to follow. AN stayed behind to finish tagging the second site.
We cut across a patch of scrubby undergrowth, the roar of distant highway traffic filtering through the trees. Past the back corner of the North Shore BMX park, we found it: a blue-and-white tent tucked tight against the treeline, barely visible from the main trail.
Smoke curled from a makeshift stove outside the flap.
Dean muttered a curse under his breath. "Looks occupied."
He gave a low whistle, loud enough to announce us without startling anyone.
"Park Rangers," he called out. "Doing a safety sweep. Anyone inside?"
A rustle. Then the tent flap unzipped.
A man staggered out, mid-thirties, shirtless, gaunt. His hands shook slightly, the kind of tremble you didn’t get from just cold or fear.
His eyes widened over us, cautious, sizing us up.
Dean stepped forward, voice steady. "We’re not here to cause problems. We just need to post a fire ban notice, check for hazards. Are you fine with that, sir?"
The man gave a tight nod, retreating back toward his pile of belongings.
As Maya and I moved in to document the site, I noticed a battered skateboard shoved half under a tarp. Cracked grip tape, a wheel half-busted off.
I stared at it longer than necessary. I couldn’t help it, a flash of Drew, balanced easily on a curb, grinning at something I said, hit me harder than I ever would anticipate.
So close. Same city. Same boards under their feet. Worlds apart.
I shook it off and took the necessary photos, forcing my mind back to work.
Dean posted the notice directly on the tent pole. The man said nothing. Just zipped himself back inside.
We left quietly. There wasn’t much else to do but continue our sweep and head back to the truck.
The F-250’s tires crunched over the gravel lot as Dean pulled back into the Ranger Station. James Chen, one of the new seasonal hires, was hosing down the utility ATV, his neon safety vest already streaked with dirt at 10 AM. He threw up a hand in greeting as we piled out, stretching stiff limbs after three hours of hauling propane tanks and posting notices.
"Welcome back to civilization," James called over the spray of water. "You guys look like you wrestled a bear."
"Just its fentanyl-addled cousin," Maya muttered, shaking pine needles from her braid.
Dean headed inside to file the sweep report while Maya commandeered the espresso machine. I slumped onto the picnic table under the shade awning, finally peeling off my sweat-stiffened radio harness. Our canyon shift wouldn't start until 11, as James and a few others were already covering for us, but my shoulders already ached thinking about the tourist hordes we'd be herding later.
The stink of propane still clung to my clothes when my phone buzzed, a name I hadn’t expected to see yet: Maybe: Drew Pierce. 236 area code. Hey. It's Drew Pierce. Still have your hoodie.
I stared at the screen. The letters seemed to pulse in time with my suddenly racing heartbeat. Three dots appeared, then: Didn’t see you around earlier, but your truck was there.
Then, a notification slid down from the top of the screen, Siri Found a Contact: Drew Pierce.
My stomach lurched. I’d Airdropped my contact to Drew yesterday, but I’d never asked for his back. He was already back here after what happened yesterday. Could it be just to look for me?
Ur already here? Sorry, I was down below working with bylaws, just got back.
I'm up by the map sign. He sent back.
I’ll be rite out, I quickly tapped.
The entrance to the park was packed, parents corralling toddlers with sunhats too big for their heads, teenagers in dripping swimsuits lining up for ice cream. It felt surreal after yesterday, like the canyon had hit a reset button overnight, even though Chase was still on the front page of the Vancouver Province.
I spotted Drew near the big trail map everyone looks at to plan their visit. He leaned against the post, towel slung over one shoulder, now in flower-patterned board shorts and a dark gray muscle tank. The blue UBC hoodie was folded neatly under his arm, and he was tapping absently at his phone with the other hand.
He looked up when he saw me, that easy, crooked half-smile tugging at his mouth.
"Thought you might've ghosted me," he said, tossing the hoodie lightly at my chest.
I caught it and hesitated. The fabric was still warm from him.
"You know," I said, throwing it back at him with a grin, "you wear it better. Might as well keep it."
Drew blinked, caught it awkwardly against his chest, and laughed. "You seriously want me to?"
"Yeah." I shrugged. "Consider it a graduation gift. You survived the canyon once already; that counts for something."
He tucked the hoodie back under his arm, grinning wider now.
"You’re not here to cliff dive again, right?" I asked, trying for mock sternness.
"Relax, Ranger," Drew said, dragging out the title in a way that made it sound a lot less formal. "Just gonna swim and chill at Thirty Foot Pool. Promise."
I let out a slow breath. "Good. I'd rather not fish someone out again. I hate paperwork."
He chuckled lightly, adjusting his towel on his shoulder.
Some of the tension that had clung to him yesterday seemed to have burned off, like mist in the heat.
"You’re still set with Cap College in the fall?" I asked, voice casual.
Drew glanced down, nudging the towel edge with his fingers. "Yeah. It’s close. Feels manageable."
"You could push higher," I said. "UBC is not that far, or SFU’s just across the bridge. You’re smart enough."
He looked up at me, a little startled, and then that small, private smile surfaced again.
"You think?"
"I know."
The world around us, the laughing tourists, the trail dust, the clatter of someone dropping a water bottle on the asphalt, faded for a second.
Then Drew shifted his weight, stepping back toward the trail.
"Maybe next year," he said. "If I figure out how not to drown on dry land first."
I chuckled under my breath.
He gave me one last look, not quite a goodbye, then disappeared into the crowd toward the bridge, the UBC hoodie knotted loosely around his waist.
I watched him go, feeling something stir, not just the ranger instinct to protect, but something warmer, something I hadn’t felt in a while.
My shift was starting. And maybe, just maybe, I'd try to see him again sooner than I thought.
I returned to the Ranger Station and donned my pack and radio harness. Soraya gave me half a wave as I pushed out the door toward the familiar chaos.
The suspension bridge hummed under the weight of too many footsteps, its cables vibrating with the shrieks of kids weaving between exhausted parents. Diaper bags swung like overstuffed pendulums, leaking sunscreen and Goldfish Cracker crumbs across the sun-bleached planks. Every lookout bench had been claimed by influencers angling for canyon selfies, by retirees fanning themselves with trail maps, by a cloud-chasing teen hiding a mango-scented vape pen behind his Patagonia sleeve.
The canyon had already rewritten yesterday's tragedy into today's content. Below us, the water kept moving, indifferent.
Up by the 30-foot pool, the heat softened. The creek widened and slowed into deep, shimmering green pockets carved into the rocks.
I spotted Drew right away.
He was perched on a flat stone near the edge, towel around his shoulders, still damp from swimming. His hair was messy from drying in the sun, and the UBC hoodie bunched up under his arm like a forgotten afterthought.
Standing a few feet away was James Chen, minus the safety vest, but slouching casually, grinning as he chatted animatedly.
James wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was like that with everyone, tourists, hikers, anyone who paused long enough to say hi. All enthusiasm, no filter. It just grated today, maybe because of who he was talking to, James’ cheerfulness with Drew felt like sandpaper on sunburn.
I approached confidently, giving a short two-note beep on my radio to announce myself as I crossed the stones.
James turned, waving a hand. "Hey! The water is hopping today. You going up to Pipeline?"
"Yeah," I said, keeping my voice even. "Shift handoff."
James shifted his stance, rocking back on his heels, clearly not in a hurry to leave.
I thumbed my radio. "Actually, Dean just put out a call. Slip and fall down the steps above Twin Falls. Minor injury, but he needs an extra set of hands at the station."
James straightened instantly, a grin flickering into something more focused. "Got it. You wanted me?"
"Yeah," I said. "You handle the ones who should stick to the retirement home better than I do."
James laughed, snapping a salute so sloppy it barely qualified. "On it!"
He gave Drew a casual nod like they were old friends, then jogged down the trail, his radio bouncing at his hip.
I watched James disappear into the trees before turning back my attention to Drew.
Drew was still sitting where he was, watching the water churn lazily between the rocks. When he glanced at me, there was a shine of amusement behind his tired eyes.
"You boss all your coworkers around like that?" he asked, lips twitching.
"Only the ones who bounce like Labrador retrievers," I said, easing down onto the rock next to him, my knee bumping his lightly as I passed, closer than I needed to be.
For a minute, neither of us said anything.
The mist off the creek cooled the worst of the midday heat. Drew tugged the towel tighter around his shoulders, the wet fabric clinging to his skin underneath.
I leaned back on my hands, letting the sunlight soak into my sleeves, pretending not to glance sideways at him.
His shirt had ridden up a little where he sat, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the waistband underneath.
Blue Ethikas this time. Shark teeth grinned up from where his boardshorts had rucked higher on his thigh, a warning in white thread.
Don’t bite. But God, I wanted to.
I swallowed, dragging my gaze back to the water before I got caught staring.
"Feels different today," Drew said after a moment, voice soft. "Like the canyon’s pretending nothing happened."
I nodded. "It does that. The whole mountain doesn't pause for grief."
I nudged a small pebble into the current with my boot, watching it tumble away into the water.
Drew pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his chin loosely over them.
He was quiet for a minute, then said, "Kinda wish I could flip a switch to make it go away that fast."
"You will," I said. "Not today. Maybe not this week. But you will."
He gave me a sideways glance, not quite skeptical, not quite hopeful, then smiled a little.
"You're a better liar than I am," he said, those sharp eyes seeing right through me.
I flashed my best professional smile, the one I reserved for tourists asking if the water was "really that cold."
"Comes with the badge," I said. "Right after 'keep smiling when idiots park in fire lanes' and before 'pretend you don't see the weed smoke.'"
That earned a small, real laugh. Low and warm, and close.
The current moved lazily between the rocks, scattering sunlight across the surface. We just sat there, not saying much, two figures in the middle of all that greenery, water, and sky. Like the world could tilt sideways and we wouldn’t fall off.
For the first time in 24 hours, something inside me felt a little less heavy. But then the radio silence stopped, James' voice cutting through the static from somewhere down the trail:
"Delta One, this is Ranger Nine. East end suspension bridge. Still need assistance?"
Dean's reply was more static: "Copy, Nine. We're just around the bend."
The peaceful moment was fractured. I pushed to my feet, pebbles crunching under my boots. Duty called, and Pipeline Bridge wouldn't check itself.
My hand hovered over Drew's shoulder, close enough to feel his body heat, not quite touching. "I've got to head up," I said. The words came out less empathetic than I meant them to. "But I'm around if..."
If you need me. If you jump again. If the canyon tries to take you too.
Drew tilted his face up to mine, sunlight catching the flecks of brown in his eyes. "Go be a hero, Ranger," he said innocently. Not a tease this time.
Before I walked away, I fished through my pockets. "Here." I passed Drew the sticker we give kids, little kids, it's a gold border glinting in the sun. Junior Ranger - North Vancouver District Parks. "For your collection. Put it on the hoodie so everyone knows you're officially... whatever this is."
Drew caught between his hands, his smirk returning full force as he turned the decal between his fingers. "Damn. Do I get a real badge if I survive another day?"
"Don't push your luck, I have more if you want one for your skateboard." I stretched out and thumbed my radio. "Ranger Three en route to Pipeline."
Something in his tone made my chest ache, but I forced myself to turn away.
The further north I hiked, the canyon shed its tourist skin. No more shrieking kids or selfie-stick battles, just the occasional trail runner panting past, the whisper of wind through cedar boughs, and the distant chuckle of runoff tracing its ancient path down moss-streaked cliffs. The kind of silence that almost let me pretend I wasn't still seeing Chase's face every time I blinked.
When I got there, the pedestrian bridge's thick cedar planks absorbed my footsteps, its pressure-treated surface worn smooth by years of maintenance crews. To my left, the water treatment plant's pipeline cut across the ravine like a rusted zipper, its industrial hum blending with the occasional slam of a car door from Rice Lake Road's sleepy cul-de-sac. No tourists here, just residents who knew better than to gawk at municipal infrastructure.
By the time I crossed back across the bridge, the sun was higher, hotter, and the weight in my boots heavier too. I checked my watch: one hour and seventeen minutes unaccounted for. Dean's eyebrows would be in his hairline by now. I made my way back down toward the Cafe for my lunch break.
Dean intercepted me at the condiment island, his coffee leaving a ring on the laminate counter. "Pipeline inspection run long, Deyton?"
I stabbed a straw through my iced coffee lid. "One of the Metro Van Rangers flagged a group hotboxing the gazebo. Figured I'd help out, better than letting them wander back through our side of the canyon."
“Uh huh,” He took a slow sip, his stare cutting through the lie like a boxcutter through packing tape. "One of Deep Cove's guys called in sick. They could use you down there this afternoon."
The offer should've been comforting. Instead, it made my skin prickle like the first warning of hypothermia. Deep Cove meant lifejacket checks on kayak tours and breaking up fights between yacht owners hogging the boat launch. Important work, but not the kind that would drown out the memory of Drew's fingers brushing mine when he took that stupid sticker. Leaving the canyon meant moving on too soon, and I wasn't ready for that either.
"I’ll pass," I moaned, my straw squeaking against the cup's lid. "Send James to play marina cop. He loves lecturing butch guys about proper PFD fittings."
Dean's sigh smelled of stale coffee and understanding. "Baden-Powell trailhead, then. Check the Blue Pools for..." He waved a hand across towards the ravine. "Whatever you need to check for."
His keys jingled as he shifted his weight. "Look, CJ. My truck's parked out back if you want to talk. No office door to leave open, but..." The unspoken ‘I've been there too’ hung between us as he walked away.
The rest of my shift dragged in the lazy heat. I stuck to the lower half of the park: patrolling the switchbacks along the Baden-Powell Trail, answering questions from families lost between markers, and keeping an eye on the Blue Pools where the water ran slower, but the risks still lingered. A kid slipped on the slick roots near the waterline and banged up his elbow. I handed out a Band-Aid and a quiet warning about better footwear.
When I made my way back up toward the suspension bridge, the sun was starting to angle westward, casting long shadows through the trees. The crowds had thinned but hadn’t vanished; a few stragglers still clustered at the viewpoints, the usual mix of shutter clicks and nervous laughter.
Then I saw it, just as I got to the Twin Falls Bridge.
Someone had left a bouquet of sunflowers tucked into the railing, along with a card folded into a ziplock bag. Another handwritten note, curling at the corners from the mist, read: We miss you already, Chase.
I stood there for a moment, hand resting on the wooden post. The world kept moving, but grief had planted itself here, too. Quiet, makeshift, honest.
I heard footsteps behind me and turned slightly.
The teen in the Blue Jays cap, the one who’d been pacing on the rocks the day before, stood a few feet away with his mom. She looked tired, dressed for practicality in a softshell jacket and jeans. Her hand rested gently on her son’s shoulder as she followed his line of sight… right to me.
“That’s him,” the teen said quietly.
“You were the one who helped yesterday. Right here,” she said.
She glanced behind her, where the two teen girls stood up on the steps, heads bowed. “That’s Harper and Nika, they’re Tyler’s friends from school. Harper’s mom drove them all up here yesterday.”
I nodded again, the pieces clicking into place.
I gave a small nod. “I was just doing my job.”
“No,” she said, eyes kind. “You did more than that.” Her voice wavered, but she didn’t cry. “Thank you. Chase is Tyler’s cousin.”
I nodded again, not trusting myself to say anything else. I glanced at the memorial one last time, then excused myself and headed up toward the Ranger Station to clock out.
Outside, the lot shimmered with heat coming off the pavement. I was halfway to my truck when I saw Drew.
He was leaning against the passenger side door of my Chevy Colorado, arms crossed, looking casual. His knee bounced like he’d been sitting there debating whether to stay. From the dry hair and fresh clothes, it was evident he had been waiting a while. The UBC hoodie was on again, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and above the huge C, the gold-bordered Junior Ranger sticker stood out like a badge of honor.
“You stalking me now?” I asked, trying to keep it light.
“I was still in the neighborhood,” Drew replied, voice equally friendly. “And my dad got stuck with a client again. I figured... You might be heading down the mountain.”
I looked at him for a beat, then unlocked the truck. “Hop in.”
He didn’t hesitate.
I was loading my pack into the back seat when a dark green Volvo wagon pulled into the staff lot, rolling to a stop in the narrow space beside the Parks truck. I didn’t need to see the plates to know who it was.
Conrad Daigle, afternoon shift supervisor. Grizzled, spent 3 years on a BC Wildfire Service crew. The kind of man who could smell BS through smoke and pine sap. He stepped out of the driver’s side in his usual black work vest and boots with enough wear to tell a story.
“Charlie,” he said, spotting me immediately. “Are you holding up ok?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Just clocked out.”
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Hell of a thing yesterday.”
“Yeah,” I said again, voice quieter. “Been through it before.”
Conrad studied me for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then his gaze slid to the truck, specifically to the passenger seat, where Drew was already buckling in, pretending not to watch us.
Conrad’s jaw worked. “Got a friend with you?”
I kept my voice even. “Just giving him a ride. He was there yesterday.”
Conrad looked back at me. Not angry. Not accusatory. But wary, like a man tucking something away for later.
“Well,” he said slowly, “drive safe, Deyton.”
“I always do. Take care, Daigle.”
Conrad gave one more glance toward Drew, then turned toward the Ranger Station.
I got in the truck and started the engine, letting the air conditioning hum to life.
Drew glanced over at me. “That was your boss?”
“One of them,” I said, pulling out of the parking spot. “Don’t worry about it.”
He didn’t say anything else.
And I didn’t offer more.
But as I turned out of the lot and onto the road that led down the mountain, I couldn’t shake the feeling that things were getting more complicated, and I wasn’t entirely sure I minded.
“So, what were you planning on taking at Cap College?” I looked over at Drew to try to get the encounter with Conrad out of my mind.
“Well, I want to take some courses in design, but the architecture stuff only starts in the Second Year.”
“You want to be an Architect? My voice pitched up.
“Yeah, something like that, when you said I should have looked at UBC, I thought about it more, and I guess you’re right.”
Drew shifted in his seat, elbow on the window ledge, fingers drumming against his knee like he’d already forgotten it was my truck and not his. “I’m not sure yet. I like the idea of designing places people actually want to be. Not glass towers. Just... spaces that make sense.”
I nodded slowly. “That’s a good way to think about it. Places that make people feel like they belong.”
His head turned, and for a second, he just looked at me. Not smiling, not smirking, just seeing me.
By the time we hit the light for his block, the light had shifted again, longer shadows, streaks of orange slanting off mirrored windows. The traffic hummed around us, but it felt muffled somehow, like we were still inside the canyon, sealed off from the rest of the city.
When I pulled up to his building, the same steel-and-glass tower as before, it felt completely different.
Not just a stop. Not just a drop-off. Something closer. He had my number, and I had his. Drew had shown up at the canyon after the events of yesterday and waited for me to get off work.
He unbuckled his seatbelt, then paused with one hand on the door.
“Charlie?” he said gently.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks again." He held out his knuckles, and I bumped them back, the hairs on the back of my neck rising.
I lingered again, like yesterday, watching him jog up the steps, hoodie sleeves pushed high on his arms. Then I cracked the window as I rolled toward the bridge, the mountain slipping behind me, the city waiting like an open question.
It wasn’t until I got back to my apartment on East 8th that I noticed it: Drew’s navy blue Herschel backpack still sitting in the backseat. He must’ve tossed it there without a word, and I’d been too distracted by Conrad to notice.
I reached past my gear and grabbed it, fingers brushing the zipper.
Curiosity got the better of me.
Inside: a damp towel. A crushed water bottle. SPF-30 Sunscreen. A half-melted Caramilk bar in its foil. And buried near the bottom, the blue Ethikas with shark teeth along the leg.
The same ones he’d been wearing on that stone by the pool.
Something stirred as I sat there with the bag in my lap, the weight of the last two days mixing with something sharper, harder to ignore. I became uncomfortably aware of the tightness in my pants just as a Telus tech passed by on the sidewalk, whistling toward his van like I wasn’t holding the Holy Grail.
Drew hadn’t texted me. He probably wouldn’t even notice he didn’t have the bag until the next time he went out. I could take it inside, hold onto it, and play dumb tomorrow. Say I just found it in the truck that morning.
I zipped the bag shut, fingers tightening around the grab handle as I thought about what I might do with the contents inside. Then I slid out of the cab and locked the truck behind me.
Back in the dim privacy of my third-floor apartment, I peeled off my Ranger uniform down to a pair of blue Manmade boxer briefs and soft plaid pajama pants, skipping a shirt entirely. With no AC and only a box fan humming in the window, it was the only way to make the sticky Vancouver July heat even remotely bearable.
Drew’s backpack on the couch kept beckoning to me each time I passed it with no message from him, until finally, I gave in to the urge. I fished the Ethikas out of the backpack and examined them. Size Medium, Polyester/Spandex, Made in the USA.
They were slightly damp. Still smelled like him, sun, sweat, something bright and adolescent that had no business being in my apartment.
My stomach knotted. I should’ve put them back.
But I didn’t.
I sat down on the couch, briefs still in my hand, every part of me lit up with the memory of his skin on the rocks, the way he looked at me as I had to leave him.
And then I did it. I buried my face in the fabric and let the scent hit me hard.
Just a quick breath. A half-second.
The aroma hit: faint detergent, sun, something I didn’t even have words for. It wasn’t strong. But it was his. And that made it worse.
I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.
They were just briefs. A stupid, damp pair of Ethika boxer-briefs. Left in his bag after he changed out of them in the washroom.
It felt wrong.
Not illegal.
Not immoral, maybe.
But wrong, because of what I knew. Because of who he was. And who I was supposed to be.
Before I could sit with any of that, my phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.
I peeled the damp boxer-briefs off my face and stood to check.
Soraya: Did you decide on the Whitecaps Game yet? I was going to ask Thomaz on the Deep Cove crew if you bailed.
Go ahead, we’ll do the next one, I typed back, heading to my room to throw on a shirt and scoop up my uniform with Drew’s briefs for a load of laundry.
After dropping the clothes in the washer downstairs, I collapsed on the couch, the fan humming in the background. The afternoon felt thick, unspoken. I wasn’t sure what line I’d just crossed.
Or if I wanted to step back from it.
