She's cold. The fire is a rumor.
The fire pit is loaded, the sun is down, and your wife has the blanket pulled up to her chin, doing the “I'm fine” that is absolutely not fine. The fire isn't fine either — it's a smolder. A rumor of a fire, making just enough smoke to find your face and nothing else.
So you're down in the dirt fanning it with the empty beer box, because it's the flattest thing within reach. Blow, fan, cough. Blow, fan, cough. She suggests — nicely, which is worse — that maybe you should just go inside.
The fix — one button, from standing up. Thirty-two inches of tube puts 220 liters of air a minute into the coals, and the fire is roaring before she finishes the sentence. Blanket comes off. Hero status: restored.