Ewa had been a fire lookout for twenty years. From her wooden tower with eighty-two steps she watched the forest for smoke. It was the dry end of summer. At six o'clock the radio said that a school group, eight children and their teacher, had not come back from a hike in the Black Valley. The search would start at dawn.
At ten past nine Ewa saw a tiny flame deep in the forest, far away. Afraid of a wildfire, she called the fire brigade. Then a second flame appeared, and a third, in a triangle.
Ewa froze. Three fires in a triangle is an old signal: "We are lost. We are here." She had taught it to children at the tower last summer. This was not a forest fire. It was the children!
For three hours she kept her binoculars on the fires and guided the rescuers by radio. She also turned the big lamp towards the valley, so the children would know that someone saw them. Before midnight the radio spoke: "We have them. Nine of nine." Ewa sat down on the top step and laughed and cried.
