"That's survival," Thompson corrected. "You think I'm going into a fire with their spaghetti special? I choose life."
I climbed up to inspect his work. The hose lay in perfect folds, each section positioned for rapid deployment without snags. Thompson might be salty as hell, but when it came to the technical work, he was flawless.
"Outstanding. Benny, pump panel?"
"All green, Lieutenant. Pressure tested, foam proportioner calibrated, deck gun checked and secured." Benny Carter's voice carried the quiet confidence of twenty-three years on the job. "Running smoother than A-shift's bald heads."
"Hey now," Rodriguez called over from Truck 12, "leave Santoro's chrome dome out of this. That thing's a safety hazard — blinds pilots on approach to the airport."
My phone buzzed. Cap's ringtone, the one I'd chosen just for him.Simple Man. The joking died away immediately.
Everyone knew that ringtone.
"Excuse me," I told the crew, stepping into the apparatus bay where the engine noise would mask the conversation.
"Morning, Cap."
"Izzy." His voice sounded tired but steady. These days, I cataloged every conversation, noted every cough, every pause. "Just confirming today's appointment. Three thirty pickup still work for you?"
"Of course. Regular treatment?"
"Yeah, just the usual poison drip," he said with dark humor that didn't quite mask the fear underneath. "Margaret's coming, too. Says I need supervision."
"She's not wrong."
"Et tu, kiddo?" But I could hear the smile in his voice. "How's the shift going?"
"Quiet morning. Nothing big.”
"Always nice." He paused, and I heard him take a careful breath. "Alright. Stay safe."
"I will. See you at three thirty."
Cap's medical retirement had been processed two months ago, pancreatic cancer listed as having come from a line-of-duty exposure. After thirty-two years of breathing smoke and chemicals, his body had finally said enough. The treatments were buying time, nothing more, but we'd take every day we could get.
I hung up and rejoined the crew, pushing down the familiar knot in my stomach. Six more hours until shift change, then straight to pick up Cap. Focus on what you can control, Delgado.
"Alright, let's finish checks," I said. "Rodriguez, how's that ladder truck running?"
From across the bay, Rodriguez looked up from Truck 12's equipment compartment. "All systems green, Lieutenant. Hydraulics tested, stabilizers functioning, aerial smooth as butter. Checked and double-checked."
"Good. Make sure your crew's following decon protocols."
Rodriguez nodded seriously. The younger guys thought I was being paranoid about gear contamination, but they hadn't watched what thirty-two years of "just doing the job" could do to the best man you'd ever known.
"Hey, L.T.," Martinez called out, "you seeing this?"
I turned to find most of the crew gathered around the TV in the day room, staring at the screen with expressions of absolute horror. On screen, actors in firefighter gear were standing in what appeared to be a kitchen, their SCBA masks dangling casually from their necks while smoke rolled past them.
"What the hell are they doing?" Thompson demanded, pointing at the TV.
"Milwaukee Fire," Benny said grimly. "Rodriguez put it on during breakfast."
"I didn't know it would be this bad," Rodriguez protested from Truck 12's bay.
On screen, one of the actors was leaning against a kitchen counter, his mask resting on the same surface where food was being prepared. The entire crew recoiled as if they were watching someone juggle live grenades.
"Turn it off," O'Malley called from the truck. "I can't watch anymore."
