“How is that even possible?” Delphy wants to know. As if she’s been napping and now she’s wide-awake, demanding answers.

I shake my head. “It’s not like we’re on a major highway, heading in a certain direction. The logging trail wanders all over the place.”

“Looking for logs.” Delphy’s face is scrunched up in concentration.

“For lumber. This trail goes where the trees are. It doesn’t care about compass headings, or outrunning forest fires.”

“Okay, I get it.” She sighs. “Let me think. Turning around would be a bad idea because the other end of the trail has already been overrun by the fire, right?”

“Right.”

“So no matter which way we drive, we’re heading for the fire. Which means we’re doomed.”

“Maybe not.” I try to sound upbeat. “Maybe the logging trail swings round to the west again. Some of this may be switchbacks.”

“Switchbacks?”

“Think of a heavy truck loaded with tons of logs. It can’t go straight up a hill. It can’t do steep. So it weaves back and forth, gaining a little altitude with each turn. That’s switchbacks. On a real, paved road they’re very precise. But carving a logging trail through the woods? Not so much. All I know is, we gained altitude over the last hour or so. We’re on top of the hills, not going around them like before.”

“Is that good?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure. But we’re more out in the open than we were in the deep woods. If a plane or helicopter goes over, they might see us.”

Delphy snorts, her eyes angry. “As if. You know our problem? Nobody knows where we are, and nobody is looking. Nobody cares!”

“That’s not true.”

She sighs. “I know, I know. I’m just frustrated.”

I figure we’ve got no choice but to see where the logging trail leads. I put the Jeep in gear, and sure enough, after fifteen minutes or so of winding along the hillside, we’re headed west again. Switchbacks, no doubt about it. I try to imagine a fully loaded lumber truck trundling along in these ruts, and it reminds me how dangerous it can be, driving a big rig. One little mistake and you slip off the road and maybe flip over, trapped in your cab.

That reminds me of what happened to Dad in Afghanistan, so I try to banish those thoughts from my mind and concentrate on the trail ahead. Keep to the ruts. Do not deviate. Concentrate on the task at hand, and the road will take care of itself. What my father called his “three mantras,” things he kept in mind that helped him drive safely, back when he was hauling pulpwood.

Every now and then, I glance over to check on Delphy. She has her arms crossed and looks miserable. Probably wishing she’d never gotten into the Jeep in the first place. If she’d stayed where she was in the woods, not far from the fire, maybe rescuers would have found her. Maybe it’s my fault she isn’t already home.

Following the logging trail seemed like a good idea, but what if it was a big mistake? What if instead of saving our lives, everything I’ve done has only made it worse?

“Sam? What’s happening?”

Delphy’s worried tone jerks me out of feeling sorry for myself. I start to pay attention to the landscape beyond the trail, and she’s right, something has changed.

It’s as if we’re rising above tree level, away from the darkness of the forest. But that’s not it. We’re still in the low hills, nowhere high enough to be above tree level. The trail has widened into a large open area populated with skinny birch saplings. Thin enough so we can see for miles, way beyond the rolling hills to the fire itself. A great black scar that runs from horizon to horizon, fed by an orange line of fire driven by wind and fuel. Like an army of flames marching through a crack in the world.

“This hilltop? It was clear-cut a few years ago,” I tell her. “See all those old stumps, with the birches growing up between them? That’s what happens when you cut down all the trees. New ones grow back, and the first generation is usually something like birch, which is fast-growing.”

Delphy looks at me impatiently, not the least bit interested in all the cool woodsy stuff I learned at camp. She wants to know what it means for us, right now.

“I’m sorry, but it looks like this is why the logging trail was built. All those miles. They wanted to bring rigs up here to harvest the really big trees.”

“What are you saying?” Delphy grabs my arm as if she wants to shake the truth out of me.

A truth I don’t want to speak, because it means I’ve been wrong all along.

“This is the end of the trail,” I tell her softly. “This is as far as it goes.”