“Back room,” I say into my radio. “Check the panel. Kill power if it’s still live.”
“Copy,” comes the immediate reply.
Good. Structure. Procedure. Something I can trust.
The smoke thins as the doors stay propped open, cold night air pushing inside hard and clean. I escort a coughing couple the last few steps to the sidewalk, then turn back, scanning again. No one left behind. No one hurt badly enough to slow us down.
Outside, the street is chaos under control. Engines idle. Red and white lights strobe against brick and glass. Steam curls up from the doorway where water meets hot metal, carrying the sharp tang of burned insulation.
Electrical. I’d bet my pension on it. I step out onto the sidewalk and finally let myself breathe. And there she is again, taking up all the oxygen.
Harper stands just past the threshold, child still in her arms, his face buried against her shoulder. Her hand moves in slow, steady circles between his shoulder blades, grounding him, grounding herself. She murmurs something too soft for me to hear, forehead pressed to his hair, eyes closed like she’s anchoring them both to the moment.
The sight hits harder than it should.
I tell myself it’s normal. Any mother would look like that. Any kid would cling like that after a scare. I’ve seen it a hundredtimes. There’s nothing about this that has anything to do with me.
Except it does.
Because that kid exists. Because he exists in her life. Because I’m looking at proof that the world didn’t pause when I walked away—it kept going, building something whole without me.
Morales steps up beside me, helmet tucked under his arm. “Fire’s contained. A short near the old panel. Wiring’s ancient. We caught it early.”
Relief settles into my bones, slow and heavy. “Good.”
“Weird, though.”
“How’s that?”
He shakes his head. “The sprinkler system didn’t kick in. Not even in the kitchen.”
“Huh. Probably ancient, too. These old buildings are quirky.”
“Yeah. That quirkiness nearly got a lot of people hurt.”
Inside, Garrett signals thumbs-up from the back hallway, and Benny starts taping off the doorway. The scene shifts from emergency to logistics—reports, inspections, calls that will need to be made before morning.
A familiar car screeches to a stop at the curb. Carlie.
She’s out before the engine’s fully dead, still in scrubs, hair pulled back too tight, eyes already wild. She takes in the scene in one frantic sweep—trucks, smoke, people clustered on the sidewalk—then her gaze locks on Harper. On the kid.
“Oh my God,” she breathes, crossing the distance fast. “Are you okay? Mason—are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Harper says, voice steady but tired. “He’s just scared.”
Carlie drops to Mason’s level, doctor mode snapping into place, checking him over with practiced hands and soft reassurances. I watch from a few feet away, suddenly unsure where I fit in this picture.
I don’t. This is her family. I’m just the history standing too close.
An older woman appears at the doorway, clipboard already in hand, expression all business. “We’ll have to close,” she says flatly to Harper. “Electrical repairs and a full inspection. No exceptions.”
Harper nods, already calculating. Already rearranging her life in her head. “How long?”
“A week if we’re lucky. Two if the city drags its feet.”
Harper exhales slowly. “Okay. We’ll figure it out.”
I hear the tension under the words, and something tightens in my chest, sharp and insistent, because I know this night isn’t done taking from her yet.
