Prairie Fire by E. K. Johnston Page A

of rural communities yet,” Owen said. He was laughing now, which I was always glad to see.
    â€œJust think,” I told him. “If you’d gone where Sadie is, you’d be learning to do this in scuba gear.”
    â€œThank goodness for small mercies,” Owen said, shuddering. For just a moment, there was an odd distance in his eyes, and I knew that he missed her more than he would ever admit to me. I didn’t mind. It mystified people that Sadie and I didn’t get jealous of the other’s hold on Owen, but I had given up trying to explain it. Some people just look for drama for drama’s sake.
    â€œDo you think it’s weird that all the disposal people are civilians?” I asked.
    Owen looked at them sharply, and I knew he was really seeing them for the first time. “I hadn’t even noticed,” he confirmed, sounding disappointed in himself. “And yes, Aunt Lottie said that disposal units were usually part of the Oil Watch.”
    â€œMaybe it’s just for training,” I suggested. “And the military units are out and about.”
    â€œHave you seen any?” Owen asked.
    â€œNo,” I said. “And I’ve seen at least three different civilian crews.”
    â€œIt is weird,” Owen said. “I mean, I get the idea of outsourcing, but this just seems …”
    â€œUncomfortably racist?” I suggested.
    â€œWell, yes,” Owen agreed, rubbing his face. Most people only saw his blond hair and dragon slayer shoulders. At most they assumed he was tanned from being outside a lot. But he wasn’t. His skin was that colour in the dead of winter.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” asked Jeremy, appearing beside me.
    â€œIt’s probably nothing,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”
    Owen’s expression was still troubled though, and I knew he wouldn’t be so easily put off. Hopefully this training session would involve pairing us off with the disposal unit, or at least breaking us into smaller groups. Then I could ask some questions. Owen knew better than to poke around, I knew. He was excellent at getting people in charge to tell him things, but I was better with strangers. He nodded when I made eye contact, and I knew he already felt better having a plan.
    â€œIf you three are finished,” Porter said, “you’ve got some work to do.”
    I looked at the dragon and sighed. He wasn’t wrong about that.

THE VOMITING CORNER
    Isagani stepped up beside Porter and began to tell us the proper way to dispose of this type of dragon. At the core, all dragon disposal is similar, though each species has a specific chemical makeup that sometimes changes the routines. I was dreading the Wapiti lessons when we got to them, because I already knew their internal chemistry was especially pernicious. After a brief lecture, the rest of the crew paired up with each of us, and we set to work.
    It was easily the most uncomfortable few hours of my life, leaving aside the time I’d waged chemical warfare on a bunch of unhatched dragon eggs. I did not have to use the vomiting corner, because Manitoulin had hardened my stomach, but two of the firefighters and Courtney, to her eternal shame, did. To be fair, they were all working around the dragon’s gut, which was much worse than the head, where Owen and I had been stationed.
    We began by dousing the dragon’s scales in water, which ran off into a drain in the courtyard floor. Isagani warned us that in the field, we probably wouldn’t be using water, because there wouldn’t be much on hand. Next time, we would switch to chemicals only.
    My hands were already sweating under the rubber gloves we wore, and the sun hadn’t yet cleared the top of the building that overlooked the courtyard. I was glad we got to do this in the morning. The idea of more chemicals on top of work in direct sunlight, even in late September, was unappealing. At