Rush by Jonathan Friesen

out of hand. Good kids dying in the spin.”
    In the spin. In the spin. Kyle!
    â€œKyle said that. He said he was ‘in the spin.’” I point at Koss. “Do you know what happened to Kyle?”
    Koss inhales, taps the ground with his stick. “ That happened to Kyle. Same as what happens to them all. Sooner or later the spin catches you. Look, Mox doesn’t want you. He’s probably going to push you extra hard. And now that he’s mad at your brother?” He sighs. “Jake, you stay with me, and you’ll be okay. Thing is, eventually he’ll get you alone. Then you say no to his offers.” He grinds his toe across the ground, erasing the clock face. “Or you could do the next best thing. Quit and leave town now.”
    I shake my head. “You’re kidding, right?”
    He says nothing. Koss pulls a cigarette from behind his ear and works it hard.
    â€œPeople have been down on me my whole life, and I’m still here.” I point down to the dirt. “Whatever that thing was you warned me about, if it has anything to do with getting a jacket, I’m taking it. To be on a rappel crew and to join a bunch of adrenaline junkies like the Immortals—this is like a dream. I’ll take care of me.”
    â€œYou talk about what you don’t know.” His voice lowers to a whisper. “Don’t tell me about the Immortals. Don’t lecture me with rumor. The Rush Club was my idea. Young, stupid me.” He swallows, rubs his eyes hard. “But I didn’t make the rules. You got to believe me, I didn’t make the rules. That was all Mox.”
    Koss grabs my shoulders, and his eyes plead. His hands are vises. There are precious few times I’ve felt I couldn’t break free, but I know I’m stuck here until he lets me go.
    â€œSince I don’t know what you’re talking about, I forgive you. Can you let me go?”
    â€œYeah.” He releases me. “I’ll let you go.”
    The next minute fills with awkward silence.
    Koss straightens. “So you’re sticking around?”
    â€œI’m not Scottie.” I step back and massage my arms. “Tell me about Kyle. He was an Immortal. Where did he get his jack—”
    â€œNot another word.” Koss purses his lips. “We never spoke. My job’s done.”
    He lights up again, and we walk back up the trail. He talks easily now. We cover his nameless fiancée, his home in Montana, and life on the fire line. Our earlier conversation becomes a weird, irregular heartbeat that doesn’t fit with the rest of the day’s easy rhythm.
    I unpack, settle onto the colorful couch, and the three swimmers reappear dead drunk. Fez and Fatty fall into the place, and Mox stumbles over them, regains his balance. I stand to greet, but two men stay down, passed out on the floor. Mox looks at me, and it’s a horrible gaze. Because he’s still in control of it. His body’s loaded and barely vertical, but somehow his eyes still pierce. Terrifying.
    â€œCome on, Jake. Give me a hand.” Koss walks to Fatty, hoists him up as if he was hollow. I reach down and muscle Fez over my shoulder. I follow Koss into the second bedroom and dump Fez into his bunk.
    I collapse into my own bed and wonder how it is Dad knows so little. This is everything he hates. The wildness, the irresponsibility. This isn’t the norm for firefighter crews. He lobbied me onto an aberration, an outlier, the one crew in California as crazy and reckless as the fires we’ll face.
    Â 
    TRAINING IN BROCKTON IS a breeze. Two weeks of conditioning followed by rappelling and helicopter work. After leaping from planes, sliding down a cable hanging from a copter feels natural.
    We gather in the old hangar turned gymnasium for refresher training and physical checks. Fats and Fez shove and joke and wait for their chance to impress.
    â€œWilson, Fatty.”
    Fatty rises to