The smoke was everywhere, thick and choking, the flames clawing at the tree line like they were alive. Firefighters were shouting orders, hoses spraying, buckets being passed hand to hand. And then—bikers. Over twenty of them. My uncle’s old crew. Leather vests already blackened from ash, jumping in like they’d been waiting for this moment.
It should’ve looked ridiculous, but it didn’t. They moved in sync with the firefighters, hauling hoses, stomping down embers, dragging branches. It felt like some strange alliance—men who didn’t belong there acting like they’d been born for it.
And then, one of them turned his head. His eyes locked on me. He froze for half a second, even with all the chaos. I knew instantly who he was—Rico. My uncle’s closest friend back in the day, the one everyone said was more like his brother than a riding partner.
I hadn’t seen Rico in almost fifteen years. Not since my uncle’s funeral. He’d vanished after that, no one really knowing where he went. And now here he was, covered in soot, hauling a hose with the firefighters like his life depended on it.
He gave me this look, half shock and half recognition. Then he nodded—barely, like a signal just for me. My chest tightened. Because with that nod came every memory I’d buried: my uncle’s laughter, the roar of his bike, and the fights that eventually tore our family apart.
I wanted to go to him, but the fire was raging too close. Embers snapped in the air, sparks dancing like angry stars. A firefighter shoved me back toward the safe zone, yelling that I needed to move. I obeyed, but my eyes stayed on Rico the whole time.
For hours they worked. The bikers and the firefighters, sweating, shouting, pushing the fire back foot by foot. People from town brought water bottles, sandwiches, whatever they had. It turned into this strange kind of community battle, everyone giving whatever they could.
By nightfall, the worst of it was over. The fire wasn’t gone, but it was under control. The firefighters began pulling back, leaving only a small crew to monitor the hot spots. The bikers, covered in ash and sweat, finally dropped their tools and gathered near their bikes.
I stood at the edge of the crowd, unsure if I should approach. And then Rico broke away from the group and walked straight toward me.
“You look just like him,” he said, his voice low and rough, like gravel under tires.
My throat tightened. “Uncle Dan?”
He nodded. “Same eyes. Same stubborn face.”
For a moment we just stood there, the noise of the firefighters fading behind us. Then he said something that caught me off guard. “You know he didn’t die the way they told you.”
The world seemed to tilt. My uncle had died in a crash—or at least that’s what my family always said. They told me he lost control on a curve late at night. Tragic, but simple. Now Rico was telling me something else.