We’re already on our way toward our turnout lockers. Less than a minute later, we’re pulling out of the driveway, heading toward the senior living center.
“Toaster fire on the second floor,” dispatch says through the headsets.
“Copy,” Grey says. “En route.”
“Think someone put theWaterford Happeningsin their toaster?” Dustin asks. “It has been a few weeks since we’ve had a call out here.”
“Not even funny,” Greyson says.
“Fair,” Dustin says. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Grey.”
Greyson nods.
We pull up in front of the familiar three-story brick building with green shutters and white trim. Residents have filed outside, and as usual, some of them look disgruntled. Nurses and aides are mingling between the seniors.
Patrick and I exit the engine first, grabbing our axes and thermal imaging camera.
“Room two sixteen,” one of the staff tells us as we run toward the building.
“Not me this time,” Wilma Chesterton yells across the lawn to us.
“Me neither,” Mrs. Patterson says proudly.
“We put the fire out with an extinguisher,” the center manager, Ray, tells me once we’re on the porch. “Just called you boys in case we missed something.”
“Always best to be safe,” Patrick says.
Patrick glances over at me and I nod.
He and I run up the stairs to the second floor. The smell of smoke fills the hallway, but no visible sign of fire is evident. We check the apartment in question. Fire’s out. There’s not even a singe to the wall. The toaster’s a goner, but otherwise, damage looks contained.
“All clear,” I radio down to the engine.
“Copy,” Grey says.
On the way out, I instruct the manager to set up a fan and have the wall outlet in that unit checked.
We step onto the lawn. “All’s clear,” I announce to the residents. “You can go back inside.”
“I was just making toast,” Ginny Holmes says.
“What’d I tell ya about that gluten-free stuff?” Evelyn says. “It’s as good as kindling.”
“Stick to bagels,” Harold McKinney says. “Them or English muffins—they’ll catch all your jam in those little nooks and crannies.”
Ginny’s face scrunches up. “Why would I want jam in my grannies?”
I look over at Patrick. He’s keeping a straight face.
“Alright everyone,” I say. “Good to see you again.”
“Don’t you want to stay for Bingo?” Loretta Simmons asks us.
“Maybe next time, Loretta,” I promise her.
She pats my arm with her frail hand. “Make good on that, Cody.”
“I will,” I tell her. I don’t know when, but I will.
