Around five years ago, I started gravitating towards jobs that made solitude a requirement instead of a consequence.

Just after finally accepting that I was an introvert.

I tried wildlife surveys, a forestry internship, and even worked private fire mitigation one summer before this gig found me.

It's how I ended up at my post on the northern edge.

Tower 9.

The government, or whoever owned this place, refer to it as a conservation perimeter or some

other empty phrasing.

What it really was, though, was a swath of wilderness too big and too wild for anyone to trust leaving alone. The acreage

stretched far enough to swallow town's whole. Thirteen fire towers covered the zone,

13 watchers, if you counted us all.

They called us rangers, though it was more about fire prevention than policing hikers or keeping bears away from trailheads.

Most rangers keep to their towers, but some of us made a habit of breaking the rules we decided

were pointless.

Technically, we weren't supposed to leave our posts without clearance, especially during the

dry season.

But out here, miles from the nearest supervisor, the rules didn't mean much.

Logan worked out in Tower 7, which sat a good few miles east.

He didn't talk much about where he came from.

He'd nod through most of a conversation, say something dry under his breath, then go quiet again.

But he was solid.

We didn't hang out often,

but sometimes we'd meet halfway between towers,

...