“Who?” I ask, already knowing.
Aaron checks his clipboard. “Abby C?—”
“—I know,” I cut in.
The room goes quiet.
Kendrick’s gaze flicks between us. “You know?”
I take a slow breath. “Her daughter was the kid I pulled out yesterday.”
Understanding clicks into place.
“Oh,” Justin says softly. “Oh.”
Aaron’s expression shifts. It’s not judgment, not concern. Just the kind of awareness that comes from living in a town where lives overlap whether you want them to or not.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says carefully.
“Yes,” I reply. “I do.”
Because here’s the thing I don’t say out loud:
If I don’t show up for this, I will never forgive myself.
The elementary school reminds me of my own childhood in a way I don’t have time to unpack.
Kids line the hallways with backpacks too big for their bodies, eyes wide when they see the fire engine parked out front. Teachers herd them like professional cat wranglers.
I adjust my jacket, suddenly hyper-aware of the uniform. Of what it represents. Of who might be watching.
And then I see her.
Abby stands near the doorway of Daisy’s classroom, clipboard in hand, hair pulled back in a way that makes her look efficient and untouchable. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater that hugs her just enough to be distracting, boots dusted with snow.
She looks composed. But she does not look fine.
Our eyes meet.
The air snaps tight between us.
For a split second, neither of us moves. Then Daisy sees me.
“Brendon!” she calls, launching herself out of line with complete disregard for rules or gravity.
Abby’s breath catches. I see it happen. The instinctive fear. The calculation.
But Daisy is already there, arms around my waist, squeezing like she’s making sure I’m real.
I freeze for half a second.
Then I bend down and hug her back, careful and solid, the way I wish someone had held me when I was her age.
“Hey, kiddo,” I murmur. “You ready to learn how to be safe if you ever come across another fire?”
She giggles. “Yes!”
Abby steps closer, her voice low. “Thank you for doing this.”
