"Shampoo. The dispenser's bone dry."
Thompson appeared from the kitchen, already scowling. "Let me guess. A-shift."
"Has to be," Martinez said. "Thing was full last time I checked it."
Benny wandered over, wiping his hands on a shop rag. "How much shampoo could they possibly need? Half of A-shift is bald. What the fuck were they shampooing?"
The question hung in the air, absurd and infuriating in equal measure. It was such a small thing, but that was the point. It was the kind of petty, inexplicable theft that served no purpose except to annoy us.
"Maybe Santoro's back hair finally achieved sentience," Thompson suggested darkly. "Demanded its own personal care routine."
"Or they're washing the engine," Martinez added. "God knows they don't clean anything else properly."
I shook my head, trying to push down the irritation. This was exactly the kind of petty bullshit that made the job harder than it needed to be. "Just add it to the supply list. We'll bill it to their shift."
"Should we booby-trap the next bottle?" Thompson asked hopefully. "Little food coloring? Make them look like Smurfs for a week?"
"Absolutely not," I said, but I was fighting a smile. "We're professionals."
"Boringprofessionals," Thompson muttered.
The first twelve hours of my shift passed in a state of quiet, humming contentment despite the shampoo situation. For the first time in years, the fire station didn't feel like my only sanctuary; it felt like one of two. My mind kept drifting back to Jimmy's apartment, to the easy warmth of his kitchen and the dizzying intimacy of his bed. A text from him would buzz on my phone, and I'd have to fight to keep a goofy, unprofessional smile off my face.
Jimmy
Thinking about you. Hope the shift is quiet.
Quiet so far. Thinking about your sourdough. Might be ruined for all other bread now.
Jimmy
I can live with that.
Even the routine calls — a fender bender on the interstate, a lift assist at a nursing home — felt lighter, easier. The constant, low-grade tension that usually hummed beneath my skin had been replaced by a steady, hopeful warmth.
The illusion of peace shattered at 9 p.m.
The tones dropped with a violent urgency that promisedsomething real. "Engine 18, Truck 12, Battalion 3, respond for a residential structure fire. 417 Elm Street. Reports of heavy smoke and possible entrapment of an elderly resident."
"Time to earn that paycheck, boys," I called out, already moving. As we pulled out of the bay, the dispatcher's voice crackled over the radio again: "Engine 18, Truck 12, multiple callers reporting person trapped."
The address was in The Grid, an old part of the city with narrow streets, cars parked bumper-to-bumper, and postage-stamp-sized front yards cluttered with fences and overgrown hedges. It was a tactical nightmare, a place where every second counted.
"Engine 18 responding," I radioed, my eyes already scanning the map on the dashboard computer. "Benny, it's a tight street. Position us just past the building — we'll stretch back. Need to leave room for Truck 12 to get their stick up."
"Copy that, L.T."
We were the first on scene. Smoke, thick and black, was pouring from the second-story windows of a small, two-story brick house. This was a working fire.
"Engine 18 on scene," I reported, my voice calm and clipped. "We have a two-story residential with heavy smoke showing from the second floor, Alpha side. Engine 18 requesting the working fire assignment."
"Copy Engine 18, transmitting working fire assignment."
"Martinez, Thompson, grab the crosslay," I ordered, swinging out of the officer's seat as Benny positioned us past the building. "We're stretching back to the front door. Let's move!"
This was our bread and butter. The Minuteman load my crew practiced relentlessly was designed for exactly this scenario — a fast, one-person deployment around the inevitable obstacles of a cramped residential scene.
Martinez pulled the loops from the hose bed and startedtoward the front door. The hose began paying out clean, then suddenly — nothing. The line went taut, stopped cold.
