Charlie glanced over at Tamia, phone clamped to her ear, as he wrapped the translator around the Whitebark pine. He heard her say “Palmer.” Now it was time for him to seal his part of the deal.

The pine spoke immediately. “Charlie Meninick, you must go away from fire. You must be safe.”

“I’m trying to help everyone be safe. I’m asking you to stop the fire.”

“Cannot. Your people are too—”

“Hang on,” Charlie interrupted. He couldn’t have any confusion backfiring on the Palalla. “Those people out there, the ones you’re fighting right now—those aren’t my people.”

“You live here, live there. Over mountains and back. You choose them, live like them, only return to Palalla when you hurt too much.”

The tree’s words stung. “I’ve made a lot of bad decisions,” Charlie admitted. “Yes, I turned my back on my people. Shit, I couldn’t get out of Nakalish fast enough. And I said ‘yes’ to every bottle I drank.” He looked down at his boots. “But I decided to make a change. I did. And that’s the only way it’s gonna stick, because I made the decision.”

Charlie turned at the sound of a plane in the distance. His gut clenched when yet another plume of toxic blue retardant billowed out the back.

“Your leaders make their decision too,” said the tree.

“Those aren’t my leaders. I’m Palalla. But those people,” he said, pointing toward the plane, “you back ‘em into a corner, they’re gonna keep doing more of the same. You gotta give ‘em an opportunity to make the right choice.”

“How you know they make right choice?”

“You talk to ‘em,” said Charlie. “You negotiate, you make a deal.”

“And trust them?” asked the tree. “Your people, Palalla and other native species . . . in-di-ge-nous people, learn about cost of too much trust for new species.”

Charlie searched for an argument. Nothing he could say about peace and forgiveness and looking toward the future could erase everything that had happened to his people since the “discovery” of America. But he had to try.

“Look, not all white people are evil. We’re all the same species, and we can all live together.”

“Does not matter now what color flowers are,” said the tree. “Whole field needs to be resown.”

“But what you’re doing will wipe everyone out!”

“Most, not all. Humans are . . . resilient. You spring up again, together we reshape land, create healthier . . . environment for all. Everything . . . will be better.”

Charlie looked out at another airplane approaching a plume of smoke in the valley. “Yes, humans are resilient,” he said. “If anyone is resilient, my people are. You watched it all happen, and now you understand what you saw. Our land was stolen, our tribes slaughtered and torn apart, but we survived. We’ve come back strong and proud, more determined than ever to keep our ways alive. But our survival doesn’t excuse everything that was done to us in the name of ‘progress.’”

“Invasive people had wrong idea of ‘progress’,” replied the tree.

“But at the time,” said Charlie, “they were completely convinced they were right. Do you know the term ‘Manifest Destiny’?”

“‘Ma-ni-fest Des-tiny’ not progress. If trees could think and move then, in past, everything change, everything different today. But we cannot go back. We can only change now.”

“You’re right,” said Charlie. “We can’t go back. We’ve seen the evil that happens when one nation can’t think of any better solution than wiping the other nations out; when people think war is the only way toward progress.” He gripped the trunk, willing the tree to understand. “You’re making that choice right now, war or peace. And once you choose, we can never go back.”

The tree didn’t respond. Charlie waited, more uncertain with every moment of silence. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the trunk. The trees had to make this decision on their own time.

Tamia called his name, wanting, he knew, to hear good news. Any news.

He walked past her to the lip of the clearing, stalling for time, looking out over the valley. Hoping.