Jax didn’t want to be there.
That was all he had thought as he trudged onto the job site this morning, dragging his boots across the gravel under the gray Tahoe sky. It was a crisp 50 degrees—the kind of cool, clear morning that was meant for kicking back and savoring. This had all the makings of one of those perfect days he’d look back on with a smile years later. Tahoe in July was his favorite place to be.
Well, almost his favorite. What man wouldn't rather be home, wrapped in his own sheets with his wife and kids piled around him, driving him nuts as he tried to sleep in. He probably wouldn’t even have this splitting headache if he were there. And he sure as hell wouldn’t be fighting the urge to knock his boss out with a wrench as they faced one disaster after another.
It wasn’t that he hated his boss. The guy was all right. Good guy, really—just didn’t always have his head screwed on straight. Jax had agreed to jump over to his crew months ago, and it felt like one big train wreck since then, culminating in this morning.
His trade was saw work. Jax was a sawman, through and through—cutting down trees was his thing, and he was damn good at it. Not an arborist, not a logger, not a climber just a sawman, plain and simple. There were others who’d done it longer, maybe cleaner, but few could do it quite like he did. He didn’t hate trees, either; it was just that, in California, old and crowded trees had a way of turning into fire hazards. His company cut firebreaks, making thin, controlled lines in the forest to keep fires from spreading. He did it because he loved the work, not out of any environmental duty. There was something thrilling about watching a tree go down just the way he’d planned, feeling the saw’s power in his hands.
But today was different. He wasn’t out in the woods, saw in hand, doing what he loved. No Jax had left that all behind for the promise of higher pay. Today he was eight feet down in a 5-by-4-foot trench, elbow-deep in freezing cold water, trying to close a valve he’d somehow forgotten to seal. His hands were slick with mud, his clothes caked with grime, and his mood was as dark as the murky water swirling around him. The worst part? He had no one to blame but himself.
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Jax wasn’t a pipefitter or an underground operator, and he definitely wasn’t a plumber, but lately he’d been forced to be all three. The company had decided to “diversify” into building condos, and, like an idiot, he’d volunteered to help out. Now he was in this trench, soaked and angry, struggling to turn the valve he’d missed earlier, trying to avoid flooding the whole site. His mind spun with frustration as he worked, feeling the water pressure finally start to ease as he clamped the valve shut with one last gargantuan heave. Collapsing back on the pipe, he muttered, “That could have been really bad.”
No sooner had he said it than a low rumble echoed through the walls around him, a heavy, ominous groan that sent a shiver down his spine. It wasn’t karma, he realized, or some higher power—it was his own damn negligence coming back to bite him. He hadn’t bothered to shore up the sides of the trench. He’d never dug this deep before, and his boss hadn’t thought to provide the safety supports. Now he was eight feet down in a pit he’d just flooded, and when you got a sandcastle wet; it tended to crumble in on itself.
Before he could react, the walls gave way with a thunderous snap. Tons of wet earth, slate, and mud caved in, crushing the air from his lungs. There was no pain—just a hollow emptiness and the weight of sudden, raw regret as he realized just how recklessly he’d walked into this mess.
Death didn't claim Jax instantly. The hard hat had protected his skull, giving him a few precious seconds to think. His thoughts flickered to his family—his daughters, his wife, and the quiet reassurance that, at least, he’d left them with a hefty life insurance. But mostly, he was struck by the stupidity of it all, the ridiculousness of dying in a landslide he could have prevented. Out of all the ways he’d imagined going, buried alive in a pit wasn’t even close to the top ten. He’d always thought it would be a tree that got him, something noble and fitting. Dying like his great garandpa had up in the Sierria's sawing away. Any smart man would have shut off the water at the main or at least asked for help. But he’d pushed on, the perfect mix of stubborn and reckless, and now he was paying the price. At least he had that in common with his ancestor. Jax just hoped his daughters were smarter than him.
As his consciousness faded, seconds stretching into an eternity, he had time to sift through each poor decision that had led him to this moment, every small misstep in fine detail. And then, as the last flicker of awareness dimmed, he felt a strange sensation, like a hand lifting him from the darkness. There was a cool breath, a spark that burned away his final thoughts—and then, nothing but silence.