“A big white bird with—”
“I know what a swan is, Lila.”
She snorts. “I just like how majestic and beautiful they are, but they’re also ferocious when provoked.”
“And you share that quality with swans?”
Why the hell am I even still standing up here with her?
A mischievous shrug of her shoulders. “I don’t know. Nobody’s ever really tried to provoke me. You could give it a go if you really want to, though.”
“Pardon?”
“Nevermind.”
Before I can question her further, the radio on my belt fizzles to life.
“Lieutenant Zimmerman to Station 47. All clear, Captain. We’re heading back.”
“Copy,” I respond.
“Wow, that was fast,” says Lila.
“It usually is. They’re a very competent crew.”
She lifts her hands in surrender. “Hey, I’m not the one you have to convince.”
“Well… good night.” I turn on my heel and, for some reason I can’t fathom, add over my shoulder, “Sweet dreams.”
In response, Lila makes a strange, wordless sound. Something between a gasp and a cough. I choose to ignore it and head back downstairs.
***
The sun hasn’t fully burned through the morning haze drifting off the Hudson when I make my way back to my office from the gym.
It’s still early, about half past eight, and the station is half-asleep. I might thrive in high-stress situations, but I also love this liminal calm when hours have passed with no calls to respond to and most of the crew has dared to settle in for a nap.
I managed to catch a couple hours of sleep in my desk chair earlier, stolen between the busy work of cycling through reports and incident logs, and the endless machine of paperwork that keeps this station running. Whether Andrew Banks and the scandalized people of Manhattan like it or not.
Because, for fuck’s sake, it was just a fucking kitten.
I shake my head. Trent can be a bit of an idiot, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders. He enlisted in the Marines right out of high school and, despite his happy-go-lucky demeanor, was definitely been exposed to some serious shit while his frontal lobe was still developing.
Honestly, that’s probably why he tries to make a joke out of everything.
Anyway, it’s not entirely the rookie’s fault that Station 47 is under fire. The last captain, my predecessor, was a lazy brute. When he retired four years ago, everyone was so relieved that it was hard to be polite about it at his farewell party. He left a bureaucratic disaster in his wake, a mess that I’mstillcleaning up.
Not to mention the sexual harassment allegations that the few female crew members have raised against him.
And then there was that bastard Sparks, a rookie I had to dismiss about a year ago because he thought it’d be fun to take one of the trucks for a joyride. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad, except it happened to be at the same time that a massive warehouse fire broke out up in Harlem and the entire fleet was called in for backup.
Shit happens, but Station 47 has unfortunately dealt with an unfair amount of shitty nonsense over the years. Trent’s little stunt was just a poorly-timed mistake that tipped everything over the edge.
Now, with this Save A Hero campaign to deal with, it’s on my mind even more than usual. Which is exactly why, when I went down to the station’s gym in the basement to run my usual morning 5k, it turned into fivemiles. Then six. Then seven.
Freshly showered but dressed in a pair of sweats and an FDNY T-shirt, since my shift is over at noon anyway, I push open the door to my office.
Where Lila Hart, wearing another damned skirt, is waiting for me.
