Domenica smiles wide and shakes my hand enthusiastically. “I came by to see what I’d heard about this morning in the newsroom, and saw you all here. Would it be ok to ask you a few questions?” I must be making a face, because she adds, “Not now, of course. When it’s convenient for you. I thought it might make for a good story.”
I’m not sure what about it all makes for a good story, and on a normal day I’d be irritated by the way she’s smiling in front of the wreckage of my home, but my exhaustion is creeping in and I’m too tired to care.
Cam gives Domenica my phone number and we agree to talk tomorrow to set up an interview.
She leaves, and we rejoin Sabrina’s parents. Her dad has hung up with insurance and is now talking with the fire investigator.
“Faulty wiring where?” he asks.
“Where?” MaryAnn whispers forcefully.
Bill turns away from her, frowning. “The security lamp near the back door? That’s impossible. I installed it myself.”
MaryAnn hurries around to face her husband, eyes lit up with fury. “I told you to hire an electrician,” she hisses, pointing an accusatory finger at his chest. He walks away, and she follows him.
“Ugh,” Sabrina groans, watching them. Her dad is waving her mom away, but MaryAnn is unfazed, continuing a steady stream of griping. “How can they be fighting right now, of all times?”
It seems to me right now is the perfect recipe for a fight. Frightened? Check. High stress? Check. Frazzled nerves? Check.
Sabrina shifts her attention to our charred home. “Did you get a chance to see the firefighter who saved you?”
“Everything was too chaotic.” I can see him in my mind’s eye, but his features are undefined. Between his large suit, his helmet and his face shield, he is only an outline of a man. “I’d like to thank him, but how can I find him? I don’t know his name.” It feels like an imbalance, to not know the name of the person who saved my life.
“I bet you could show up at the nearest fire station and ask around. I think firefighters have weird schedules, like they work a day and then have two off. If he’s not there, someone will know what you’re talking about.”
“What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if he just wants to do his job and move on?”
Sabrina shakes her head. “I think anybody in public service would love to be thanked for their contribution. Especially when it’s dangerous.”
“When you put it that way…” I nudge Sabrina. “I’m really sorry about all this. Your house. Your things.”
She stares at the misshapen mess in front of us. Homes bring feelings of safety and security. You lock your doors and you’re supposed to be safe inside your home. But what about when the danger originates inside?
“We don’t know the extent of it all yet.” Sabrina plasters a smile on her face. It’s too bright to be authentic, but I appreciate her positivity. “Besides”—she wraps an arm around my shoulders—“most of it is just stuff. It’s replaceable. You are not replaceable. And you’re here. Everything else is noise.”
CHAPTER 4
My stomach hangs somewherenear my knees. The fire station feels off-limits, a place I’m not supposed to go.
But where else am I supposed to find the man who saved my life? Taking a deep breath, I open the door and step inside before I change my mind.
“Can I help you?”
A man, tall with closely cropped thinning salt and pepper hair, stands near a red fire truck.
“Hello.” I smile at the man and walk closer. He’s built like a wall with a shirt that reads ‘Captain.’ The mustache on his face looks like it’s lived there a long time. “I’m looking for someone, um…” I swallow against my awkwardness. “Last Saturday night there was a fire at my house. I was inside, and he rescued me.” It’s not a question, but my voice lifts at the end and it comes out sounding like one.
His head cocks sideways. “On Vista Buena?”
“Yes, exactly.”
“That was Woodruff. He’s in the kitchen. Let me grab him.”
He leaves me in the bay. To keep busy, I study the equipment. A long yellow tube hangs from the ceiling, and off tothe side a pole leads up to the second story. I don’t know why, but I’d always thought that was fire station lore. I guess not.
A door to the left opens, and the firefighter I’d been talking with walks out. He’s followed by two men, dressed the same, and about the same height.
The second man steps sideways, coming into my full view. His dark brown hair shines like glazed chocolate in the overhead light, and even from this distance I see what his gear hid. This man is attractive, a brand of handsome that knocks a person sideways and requires them to recover.
