“Councilman,” I say sharply, taking a step away from the wall. “The people of Station 47 risk their lives every single day. Just last night, we were among the six stations that were called out to respond to a tragic fire on the Upper West Side. Two civilians lost their lives, several more are in critical condition, and many of my fellow firefighters have also suffered injuries that they will be recovering from even as they continue to answer calls in the days and weeks to come.”
“Captain—”
“And even when they’re not on call, they are training. Constantly improving. Strengthening their bodies, prioritizing their health, and ensuring all equipment is in perfect condition. All so that they can be in the best form possible when they are needed. Not toperform, but to serve. Does that sound like a circus to you?”
Banks loses his composure enough that he openly scoffs at me, then pulls out his phone. I catch a glimpse of some social media account I can’t be bothered to recognize.
“This, Hargrove? This is a so-called crisis management campaign run by a—a—”
“A glorified influencer!” Pelavin chimes in.
“Precisely!” Banks wrinkles his nose. “An influencer with a personal agenda of her own. One who seems to think that cheap publicity stunts are going to convince the people of this city that we should keep wasting money on your sinking ship!”
I take another step toward him, and it must seem menacing enough that something in his demeanor changes automatically. A flash of uncertainty, a hint of trepidation.
It’s enough to make me want to laugh in his face.
For all his bravado, Banks is afraid of me.Good.
One of the council members, a woman named Angie Porter, adjusts her glasses and offers me a polite smile before turning a sharper gaze upon Banks.
“Are you aware that this so-called ‘sinking ship’ has just gone live on TikTok?” She flips her tablet around so that we can see the screen.
I tense instantly.Liveis not a good thing to hear in combination with Station 47. For all my defense of them, we agreed that all media content would be posted in a much more controlled way than a livestream.
Banks lets out a sharp laugh. “More theatrics? Let’s put it up on the main screen then! You can all see for yourselves how they are little more than circus performers, just like I’ve said. Barry, will you help Ms. Porter out?”
Porter scoffs at her colleague, firing a glare at Pelavin when he rises and reaches out for her tablet. “I’m more than capable of using a simple HDMI cable.”
My stomach squirms as there’s some fussing around with the projector screen along the front wall. I move to the side, silently begging that this is a genius maneuver on Lila’s part and not a last-ditch attempt from Noah to save the day.
I should’ve called her before I came here. Should’ve brought her with me. Should’ve, at the very least, given very clear instructions for everyone at the station to sit tight and not rockthe boat until I returned. But I assumed that was a given, since everyone was so worn out from last night’s call.
When the larger screen finally comes to life with the feed on Porter’s tablet, I frown in confusion.
Of all people, Old Bill is standing in front of the camera.
I recognize the angle—they’ve set up a camera in the main bay, with the American flag and the Station 47 banner directly behind him.
“—love Station 47 because it saved me before I ever put on the uniform,” Old Bill is saying. He’s clean-shaven for once, and actually bothered to tuck in his navy FDNY T-shirt. I’m sure only Lila’s charm could have made that happen. “It was the late nineties and I was on the path to destruction, young and reckless. One night, I got myself into a little bit too much trouble and had to be resuscitated by an EMT named Jack McElroy, who retired from Station 47 back in 2018. He said to me, ‘Kid, you’re too full of life to be flirting with death so boldly.’”
Several questioning glances from the council members are tossed my way, but all I can do is shake my head to quietly indicate that I don’t know what’s going on either.
On the bottom of the screen, I watch the number of viewers increase rapidly. From hundreds to over a thousand, to nearly five thousand in a matter of minutes.
Old Bill continues his story, one that even I haven’t heard before. “That one statement stuck with me for a while. It went through my head over and over, all with the same image of Jack leaning over me, the 47 patch on his arm right in my line of sight. Eventually, I cleaned up my act and marched right to Station 47. As luck would have it, that day happened to be one of their recruitment events. I signed up for training right then and there, and I have never looked back. This station saved my life, and I’ve tried my best to repay that favor by saving other lives.”
It's an effort not to openly gape at the screen. In one corner of the feed, little hearts are exploding, which must mean that the viewers are showing their support.
On some signal from behind the camera, Old Bill smiles and inclines his head toward the camera, then steps out of sight.
Rita takes his place.
“I joined the service because firefighters saved me and my mother before I was even born,” she begins. “When she was pregnant with me, my family lived out in Queens. There was a bad fire on our block, my father wasn’t home, and she was eight months along and unable to evacuate on her own. A female firefighter carried her out of the building, but the stress induced an early labor. That woman helped deliver me right there on the sidewalk, then insisted on accompanying us to the hospital as soon as my mother could be safely loaded into an ambulance.”
I exhale slowly. I knew this story already. In fact, the entire thing was so famously dramatic that there’s even a low-budgetfilm inspired by the events that did a decent indie circuit about twenty years ago.
“My mother always told me that a firefighter named Jean Whitcomb saved both of our lives that night,” Rita continues. “And it instilled in me a desire to be a hero just like her. So, when I was a young adult who had just finished her EMT training, I hunted down Jean Whitcomb in hopes that I could work alongside her. I found out that she had transferred to a different station outside of Queens—Station 47. The rest is history.”
