Paul hears it. For a split second, his professional mask slips, revealing raw fear before command training reasserts itself.
He's moving toward his position, radioing information, organizing the response. But his eyes keep darting to the burning building, his body unconsciously angling toward it.
I step directly into his path, a decision made in a heartbeat.
"Let me go," I say, voice low and urgent. "I'm faster. You need to run command."
I see the struggle in his expression, the warring impulses of brother and fire chief.
"Paul," I say, using his first name deliberately. "I'll find her."
His nod is almost imperceptible, but it's there—trust passing between us like a physical object.
"Go," he says.
I'm moving before the word fully leaves his mouth, Parker falling in behind me. I pull my mask over my face, take my first regulated breath through the SCBA. The tank feels heavy on my back as we approach the studio door, heat radiating in visible waves.
"Fire department!" I shout, pounding on the door. No response.
I test the handle, it’s hot, but not searing. Locked. I step back, then forward with purpose, my boot connecting with the wood beside the handle. The door gives with a splintering crack.
Smoke billows out, thick and acrid, not just wood smoke, but also the chemical smell of burning glazes and clay. The heat hits like a wall, but I push through, staying low, scanning what I can see through the mask.
"Michelle!" I call out, the sound muffled through my mask. "Fire department! Call out!"
We move methodically, Parker and I separating slightly to cover more ground. The floor creaks beneath my boots, and somewhere above, I hear the ominous crack of compromised structural supports.
"Primary search, first quadrant clear," Parker reports into his radio.
I push deeper, toward where I remember the kiln standing. The smoke is thicker here, the heat more intense. Through the haze, I can make out the kiln's silhouette—door hanging open, orange glow inside. The source of the fire.
Sweat runs down my back, soaking my shirt beneath the turnout gear. My breaths come steady through the regulator, but my heart pounds an urgent rhythm against my ribs.
"Michelle!" I call again.
A sound answers from my left, faint but distinct. Not a voice, but movement. I turn, sweeping my flashlight through the smoke, and catch a glimpse of color—the blue of a sweater, a pale hand.
She's on the floor near the kiln, partially hidden behind a fallen shelf. Still, so still. My training takes over, pushing aside the fear that threatens to choke me. I move to her side, gently rolling her onto her back, checking for obvious injuries. Her face is smudged with soot, her breathing shallow, but she's alive. The same smudge of clay I noticed on her cheek yesterday is still visible beneath the smoke stains.
"I've got her," I call to Parker, then into my radio: "Victim located, unconscious but breathing. Extracting now."
I slide my arms beneath her, one under her knees, one supporting her back, and lift. Through my gear, I can feel the slight rise and fall of her chest.
Her breaths are barely there—shallow, ragged, the kind of respiratory pattern that means she’s running out of time. Even through my mask, I hear the faint, wet hitch in her inhalation, a sound that sends a bolt of fear straight through me. She coughs once, a weak, broken sound against my shoulder, and that’s when I make the decision.
I drag a steadying breath through my regulator, then unclip the seal of my own mask with one hand, forcing myself to stay calm even as hot air rushes in around my face.
“Stay with me, Michelle,” I whisper, though I don’t think she can hear me.
I press the mask gently over her mouth and nose, holding it in place with my gloved hand so she gets the full flow of clean air. Her next inhale is deeper—still shaky, still fragile, but better. Relief hits me hard and fast, leaving my own lungs burning with smoke I take in raw.
The world narrows to the sound of her breathing against my mask, to the feel of her chest rising more steadily against my arm. Whatever smoke I take in is secondary. She needs the air more than I do.
"I've got you," I murmur, though I know she can't hear me through the mask, through her unconsciousness. "I've got you, Michelle."
For a moment, I feel the faintest twitch of her fingers against my turnout coat, a weak grasp that slips almost as soon as it forms. It’s nothing, but it hits me like a jolt. She’s fighting. She’s still with me.
The surge of relief is sharp, almost dizzying, and I tighten my hold just enough to keep her secure as I pick my way back through the smoke.
