"There's thorough, and then there's whatever you do," Bradley chimes in, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen.
"Just because some of us don't consider 'mostly clean' the same as 'inspection ready,'" I toss back, sliding the compartment shut with a satisfying click.
Bradley snorts. "Chief’s golden boy strikes again."
"I'm not—" I start to protest, but Arthur cuts me off as he walks past.
"Give it up, Rivers. You've been Paul's project since day one. Never seen him invest in a rookie like he has with you." Arthur's voice is gruff but not unkind. "Though if you polish that chrome one more time, I'm hiding the cleaning supplies."
I duck my head, pretending the teasing doesn't secretly please me.
"Chief's looking for you, by the way." Bradley adds.
I nod, closing the compartment with a satisfying click. The station feels different at shift change. Quieter, more focused. I find Paul in his office, bent over paperwork.
"Inventory's complete on Engine 2," I report, standing a little straighter. Even after almost a year, I still feel that need to prove myself to him. "All medical supplies stocked and SCBA tanks at full pressure."
Paul looks up, his expression neutral but approving. "Good work today, Rivers. That ladder drill was clean."
Coming from Paul Hawkins, that's high praise. I try not to let my satisfaction show too obviously. "Thank you, sir."
Before he can respond, Nathan pokes his head in. "Evening crew's here. We're cleared to go."
Paul nods, gathering his things. "Head home, Rivers. Get some rest."
We walk out together into the bay where Arthur and the others are already exchanging information with the night crew. The station buzzes with the routine handover—equipment checks, situation reports, the small details that keep everything running smoothly. Through the bay doors, I can see that twilight has deepened into early evening, stars just beginning to appear above Whitetail Falls.
I'm reaching for my jacket when the alarm sounds, cutting through the calm with its insistent wail. Every body in the bay stiffens, heads turning toward the dispatch speaker.
"Engine 2, Ladder 19, respond to structure fire, 1425 Willow Creek Road. Report of smoke and visible flames. Hawkins Pottery."
The world stops for a fraction of a second. Paul freezes mid-motion, his keys dangling from suddenly rigid fingers.
"Hawkins Pottery," Arthur repeats, his eyes darting to Paul.
"Gear up," Paul orders, his voice unnaturally steady. "Now."
We move as one organism, muscle memory taking over as we pull on turnout gear. My heart hammers against my ribs, thoughts racing faster than my hands can work the clasps and straps.
"Chief," I begin, but he cuts me off with a sharp look as we climb onto the engine.
"Focus, Rivers. Do your job." His tone leaves no room for personal concern, but I see it in the tightness around his eyes—fear for his sister, professionally contained beneath years of training and discipline.
The engine roars to life, sirens splitting the quiet evening as we pull out of the station. The familiar weight of my gear should be comforting, but tonight it feels like borrowed armor, inadequate against the dread building in my chest. Bradley navigates the darkening streets with practiced urgency, red lights reflecting off storefronts decorated for Christmas.
"Two-minute ETA," he calls over his shoulder.
I check my SCBA straps, secure my helmet. Next to me, Paul is stone-faced, radioing dispatch for updates. His composure is almost inhuman, but I catch the subtle tells, the white-knuckled grip on his radio, the muscle working in his jaw.
"Visible smoke from a block out," Nathan reports from the front seat.
I lean forward to see through the windshield. Against the indigo twilight sky, a dark plume rises, illuminated from below by an orange glow. Not just smoke—active fire. My stomach knots.
"Rivers, Parker, primary search," Paul directs, his voice cutting through my thoughts. "Logan, Bradley, attack line. Nathan, utilities. Arthur, ventilation assessment."
The engine pulls up to the small converted garage that houses Hawkins Pottery. Flames visible through the windows, smoke pouring from under the eaves. Two neighbors stand in the yard, one on a cell phone, the other gesturing wildly toward the building.
"She's inside!" the woman calls as we jump from the truck. "Michelle's still in there, I saw her lights on just twenty minutes ago!"
