He pulled out a chair, the metal scraping against the linoleum, and sat down, pointing his spoon my way. “See? That’s what I’m talking about.”
“It’s five-thirty in the morning. The sun isn’t even up,” I grumbled around more Cheerios.
“Son, it could be the middle of the damn afternoon and ain’t nobody going to get more than a handful of words out of you!”
I shrugged. “You talk enough for both of us.”
Christ, his laugh was loud. “You’re a funny one, you know that?” He dug through the oat pieces to load his spoon up with only the marshmallows.
I pressed my lips together in a small smile. “Sure.” Then I stood and took my dishes to the sink to wash them.
“When are you off?” he asked.
“In two and a half hours,” I said, placing the clean dishes in the drying rack.
The firehouse, and the men inside it especially, were a lot of things, but dirty wasn’t one of them. You’d think a bunch ofmen who essentially lived together, and were up all hours of the day and night would be sloppier, but we ran a tight ship. The floors were always mopped, swept, and free of clutter, though that was more of a safety thing than anything else. The last thing anyone needed was a hot call coming in during the middle of the night and people tripping over discarded clothes, gear, and other crap. But the cleanliness went beyond safety hazards. The sink was never spilling over with dirty dishes, even after one of Hank’s chili suppers, and the toilets were always spotless, the seat returned to its proper position every time. It was one of the things I appreciated most about our station.
Ralph nodded. “Just enough time to get a workout in then. Maybe one of these days I’ll join you.”
I grabbed my headphones from my pocket, and started toward the gym. “You’re welcome anytime.”
If we weren’t on a call, I was in one of three spots—the kitchen, the gym, or the bunk room. Not that I slept great surrounded by people, but I always tried. And while some of the guys liked to watch sports on the TV, or play video games, that wasn’t me. Relaxing in general wasn’t really my thing, at least, not in the traditional sense. I needed to keep my body moving, my mind active. It’d been that way for me for as long as I could remember.Hehad made damn sure of that.
Stay quiet.
Stay alert.
Stay guarded.
That was how you survived in this world. Relaxing was a luxury afforded to those in the light where dangers were visible. But for those of us bred in the dark, there was no such comfort.
***
A little over an hour and a half later, I was pulling my Scout Sixty Bobber into my driveway. Driving a bike year-round in Pennsylvania maybe wasn’t the most practical choice—I fought the windchill for every breath I took as I rode—but being that the firehouse was five minutes from my house, and I didn’t go anywhere else all that often, I didn’t see a need to trade her in.
There was something freeing, yet grounding about riding a bike. It was physical, unlike simply sitting in a car, the same way you sat on a couch, or a toilet. Riding took concentration, balance, vigilance, and every time I straddled the leather seat, I also straddled the line between walking away from her unscathed, and splattering my organs across the asphalt highway like toppings on a pizza. It was thrilling in a way that everyday life wasn’t, and I needed that high.
That adrenaline rush was the same reason I became a firefighter. There was nothing more addictive than watching flames dance as they caught hold of something combustible, feeling the immense heat radiating off a burning building, and running straight into it. Of course, our goal was always to put the fire out before it spread—I wasn’t that sick in the head that Iwantedto see buildings or houses burn down. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the fight.
Letting myself inside, I emptied the pockets of my leather jacket onto the kitchen table, grabbed a glass of water from the tap, and headed upstairs to my bedroom.
From the outside looking in, you’d swear no one lived here. The dark grey covers on my bed were drawn up over the pillows tightly, the extra pillows arranged perfectly on top. There was a lone lamp on the nightstand, and the dark, wooden desk in the corner had my laptop, a pad of paper, and a pen sitting on top. All clothes were folded neatly inside the dresser, and nothing spilled from the closet. The en suite was a similar situation.
It was easy to keep a space clean when there wasn’t an abundance of crap to clutter it with, and I’d never been one for “stuff.”
Yawning, I walked over to the window and pulled the blackout curtains closed. It was eight-thirty in the morning, but this was how the first day coming off a forty-eight hour work shift always went. I’d sleep as much as I could—which usually wasn’t much—I’d make myself some food, and depending on the day of the week, I’d head to the bar downtown.
My life was routine, predictable, which was exactly how I liked it. I once read somewhere that having a regimented routine was a bad thing, that if someone wanted to murder you, it’d be made easier by the fact that you did the same thing every day. That knowledge didn’t stop me. If someone wanted me dead, they could knock themselves out trying.
The bed was chilly as I slid underneath the comforter, but it was a thousand times comfier than the glorified cots in the bunk room. I’d managed to catch a handful of hours of sleep over the past two days, but it was disjointed at best. Between the well-worn mattresses, and the fact that I never slept well with other people in the room, I was running on empty, the effects of which were finally catching up to me.
Hope and something like relief filled me when my head hit my pillow, and my eyes almost instantly slammed shut. Maybe this would be a good sleep, one that would actually see me well-rested.
I should’ve known better.
After a couple of hours, I jolted awake in bed, my sheets drenched in sweat beneath me, my body shaking with tremors. My breathing came in ragged gasps as I fought to catch my breath.
It was only a nightmare, Archer.
