"Guys," Izzy called out, "Jimmy's here."
The response was immediate. Men emerged from various corners of the station — some in uniform, others in workout clothes or casual wear. I recognized them from Izzy's stories, but seeing them in person was different. I’d seen them all briefly in the ER when they responded to the door jam, but now, out of their turnout pants … they were all bigger than I'd expected. I suppose that made sense, with the kind of physical presence that came from years of hauling equipment and pulling people out of burning buildings.
"Thompson," Izzy said, gesturing to a stocky guy with graying hair and sharp eyes, "meet Jimmy. Jimmy, this is Thompson, my bar man and the station's unofficial comedian."
Thompson looked me up and down with the kind of assessment I imagined he usually reserved for burning buildings. "Thanks again for taking such good care of Cap."
"Like I said, he’s good people," I said simply. "No need to thank me for telling the truth."
Something in Thompson's expression shifted, approval replacing assessment. "Yeah. Damn right.”
The introductions continued. Martinez, young and eager, with the kind of enthusiasm that reminded me of new nursing grads. Benny Carter, the driver, older and steady, with callused hands and the quiet confidence of someone who'd seen everything. From the truck crew: Miller, the captain with the easy smile and competitive gleam in his eye; O'Malley, whose Irish accent was barely detectable until he got excited; Rodriguez, who looked like he could bench press a small car.
They were polite but reserved, the way people are when they're sizing up someone new to their circle. I understood it — they were protective of Izzy, protective of their crew dynamic. I was an outsider until proven otherwise.
"What did you bring us?" Martinez asked, eyeing the containers with barely concealed hope.
"Chicken Parmesan," I said, setting down my bags. "Bacon panko mac and cheese. Caesar salad. And New York-style cheesecake for dessert."
The silence that followed was profound. Thompson blinked slowly, like he was processing a particularly complex technical manual.
"From scratch?" Benny asked carefully.
"Is there another way?"
Miller clapped his hands together. "I like him already."
"Save some room for judgment until after you taste it," I said, but I was smiling. The ice was starting to crack.
The bay doors rumbled open, and Sophia appeared, hand-in-hand with Jack, the Kiwi paramedic I knew she’d been dating. Seeing Sophia out of her charge nurse element was strange — she looked younger, happier, completely at ease.
"Kia ora, everyone!" Jack called out as they entered. "Hope we're not too late for the tucker."
I'd met Jack briefly at the hospital, but this was different — casual clothes, relaxed posture, Sophia's hand in his. They looked happy together, settled in a way that spoke of a relationship that had found its footing.
"Jimmy," Jack said warmly, "good to see you again, mate."
Sophia stepped forward, and I understood immediately why she commanded so much respect at Metro General. Even in jeans and a sweater, she had an aura of competence and quiet authority. We'd crossed paths plenty of times at shift change — me coming in at seven p.m. as she was wrapping up her day, brief conversations about patients we'd shared.
"Hey, Jimmy," she said with a warm smile. "Good to see you outside the hospital for once."
"Likewise. How'd that guy in room 12 make out yesterday? The one with the pneumonia?"
"Discharged this morning, actually. Responded beautifully to the antibiotics." She looked around at the prep containers. "Jack told me you were cooking for everyone. That's really sweet of you."
Jack held up a bottle of wine — something with an elegant label that looked expensive. "McKenzie Estate," he said, handing it to me. "For you and Izzy to take home later. Can't show up empty-handed when someone's doing all the cooking."
The gesture was small but significant. They weren't justbeing polite — they were marking me as part of the group, someone worth investing in. The wine was clearly good stuff, the kind of thing you shared with people who mattered.
"Thank you," I said, meaning it. "That's really thoughtful."
"Right then," Jack said, clapping his hands together. "What can we do to help?"
The next hour was controlled chaos in the best possible way. The Station 2 kitchen was clearly designed for feeding a crew — commercial-grade appliances, plenty of counter space, multiple ovens. It was a pleasure to work in, especially with so many willing hands.
Martinez appointed himself my sous chef, following instructions with the kind of precision he probably brought to checking equipment. Thompson manned the salad station with surprising skill, admitting that he'd learned to cook during his first marriage. "Back when I thought romance meant more than just not leaving dirty dishes in the sink," he said with a self-deprecating grin.
Benny and Miller fell into an easy rhythm setting the long dining table, while O'Malley and Rodriguez argued good-naturedly about proper Caesar dressing technique. Jack and Sophia worked together with the kind of seamless coordination that spoke of a established relationship, and Izzy moved between groups, supervising and encouraging like the natural leader she was.
