The supervisor led us through the main entrance and down a short corridor that smelled like industrial disinfectant mixed with that faint nursing home scent — medications and cafeteria food and something indefinably institutional. The burnt-popcorn-and-melted-plastic smell hit as soon as we rounded the corner.
Mrs. Jones' kitchenette was exactly what I expected. The microwave door hung open, interior blackened but contained. Smoke detector chirped overhead, reset but still sensitive to the lingering haze. A pressurized water extinguisher sat on the counter — someone had made an attempt before we arrived.
"Mrs. Jones thought she'd set it for sixty seconds but hit six minutes," the supervisor explained. "She's mortified. We've moved her to the common area."
"These things happen," I said, pulling out my thermal imaging camera and doing a quick scan. No hot spots, no extension into the walls or cabinets. "You might want to review microwave safety with residents, but no harm done."
I keyed my radio. "Battalion 3, Engine 18. We have a light smoke condition, confined to the microwave unit. Building secure, no extension, no injuries. Power secured to the appliance."
"Copy, Engine 18. Battalion 3 is pulling up now. Need any additional resources?"
"Negative. We'll ventilate and return to service."
Thompson was already setting up the positive pressure fan in the doorway while Martinez opened windows. Within minutes, we'd cleared most of the smoke. Back outside, Truck 12 was just arriving, Captain Miller climbing down from the officer's seat with a knowing look.
"Let me guess," he called out. "Microwave casualty?"
"Popcorn," I confirmed, pulling off my helmet and loosening my coat. The pre-dawn air felt good against my sweat-dampened hair.
"That's the third time this month," Martinez muttered, helping Thompson load the fan back onto the engine. "Someone needs to hide the microwave popcorn."
"Or teach a basic cooking class," Thompson added, his voice dripping with his signature dry delivery. "I love being a firefighter at four in the morning."
Rodriguez from Truck 12 wandered over, grinning. "Hey, at least you got to stretch your legs. We didn't even get to take the stick out of bed."
"Yeah, well, at least you know which end of the ladder goes up," Thompson shot back automatically. "That's more than most truckies can manage."
"Big talk from a guy who probably needed help finding the front door," Rodriguez countered.
The familiar banter washed over me as I did a final walk-around of the engine, checking that all equipment was secured. A few years ago, I might have felt obligated to jump in with my own comeback, to prove I could hang with their humor. Now I just let it roll past like background noise — I had nothing to prove to anyone who still thought "that's whatshesaid" jokes were peak comedy.
This was the reality of the job — ninety percent routine calls, ten percent life-and-death emergencies, and you never knew which was which until you arrived.
"All right, let's wrap it up," I said. "Martinez, get the water can back on the engine. Thompson, make sure the fan'ssecured. We don't get sloppy just because it was a nothing call."
"Roger that, L.T."
Battalion Chief Evans appeared from his SUV, coffee somehow already in hand despite the hour. "Good response time, Delgado."
"Thank you, sir."
"How's the crew holding up? You're, what, thirty-seven hours in?"
"Thirty-eight, sir. They're solid." I glanced at my crew loading equipment with the same precision they'd show at hour one. "B-shift doesn't do tired."
He nodded approvingly. "Captain O'Sullivan trained you all well. Speaking of which, how's he doing?"
The question hit me square in the chest, but I kept my expression neutral. "Hanging in there, sir. Has a treatment this afternoon."
"Good man. Give him my best." Evans headed back to his vehicle, already pulling out his phone to probably update the duty chief.
Twenty minutes later, Engine 18 was backing into the bay at Station 2. The sky was starting to lighten in the east, that gray pre-dawn that meant the overnight was almost done. Ten more hours until shift change. Ten hours until I could pick up Cap for his appointment at the cancer center.
As we climbed down from the rig, Martinez shook his head. "False alarm number forty-seven this month. I swear, if I have to respond to one more burnt dinner..."
"You'll respond professionally and treat it like the real thing," I finished for him. "Because the day we start assuming it's nothing is the day someone dies while we're rolling our eyes."
He had the grace to look sheepish. "Yes, ma'am."
