Tomorrow, I would thank him in person, satisfy my curiosity about the man behind the uniform, and maybe even get his firstname. Then, I could move on with a quiet, drama-free life that I'd come to Goodwin Grove to build.
I picked up my phone, dialed my mama's number, and hit the speaker. "Hey, Mom," I greeted her when she answered.
"Hey, baby, are you alright? I can come up there, bring you a few hot meals, and get that place together for you?—"
I interrupted. "I'm fine, I promise, and this little rental already feels like home." I smiled despite the lump in my throat.
"You don't sound fine."
"I'm just tired. Starting over has been a lot, but I got this." I sank into the couch.
There was a sigh and then a long pause as she released her worry. "Alright, if you say so."
"I say so."
"Good, because I have Bible study tonight, and if I miss it, Sister Dorris will tell everyone my backsliding daughter set her place on fire just to get attention."
I laughed. "What? She would not say that."
"She wouldn't have to. She would say it with her eyebrows."
We both laughed, real laughter, making the weight in my chest lift.
"You are a mess. Love you, Mama."
"Love you more, baby. And remember, don't let that pretty face fool people into thinking you can't fight."
"Yes, ma'am." I giggled.
I hung up. Mama was holier than thou but always ready for a good fight.
The next day, I pulled into the parking lot of the 791 Fire Hall, a red brick building.
"You have arrived at your destination,"the voice on my GPS announced.
I sat with the engine idling, wondering if this was a good idea. I checked myself in the rearview mirror, glad my curls had cooperated today. I wore my favorite gold hoop earrings — casual but put-together.
Up close, the fire hall was more intimidating than online, a place built for strength and unity. Two trucks were visible through the bay doors. I switched off the engine, stepped outside the car, and walked toward the entrance.
As I approached the pedestrian door next to the bay entrance, male laughter drifted out. I hesitated. Did civilians walk into fire stations? Was there a reception area? Not wanting to overthink things, I pushed the door open and went inside.
The bay had high ceilings and concrete floors. Two fire trucks were flanked by four men in navy T-shirts bearing the department's logo. They turned around at the sound of the door, mid-conversation.
I stepped forward. "Look who survived."
"Oh shit, it's the fire girl!" The tallest one stepped forward with a wide grin. He extended his hand. "Dane. I was with the rescue team that pulled you out. Good to see you vertical."
I shook his hand. "Gisselle Daniels. And technically, I was never on fire."
"Semantics," Dane replied and winked.
A shorter, stockier man with close-cropped hair stepped forward to shake my hand. "Evan. Glad to see you're doing well, Ms. Daniels."
"Gisselle, please," I insisted.
The third man hung back but offered a small wave, making me notice the tattoos covering his forearms. "Jaxon. How are you feeling? Any lingering respiratory issues?"
"I'm fine. I received a clean bill of health," I replied.
