"That's Cap," I said. He had a way of knowing exactly when someone needed a quiet word or a firm push. He'd pulled me out of more than one dark moment over the years, especially after my dad died.
The alarm tones cut through our conversation. "Engine 18, Truck 12, Medic 402, respond to vehicle accident with possible entrapment, Highway 45 northbound at Montrose Road."
The world snapped into focus. The banter died. The crew moved as one.
"Engine 18 responding," I said into my shoulder mic, already swinging into the officer's seat. Behind me, I heard Truck 12's diesel roar to life.
The ride out was all business, Benny navigating traffic while I pulled up the location on our mobile data terminal. Highway 45 at Montrose — that was a bad stretch, a curve where people always took the bend too fast.
"Truck 12, Engine 18," Captain Miller's voice came over the radio. "We'll set up for stabilization. You guys handle fire suppression if needed."
"Copy that, Truck 12."
This was the dance — ego and rivalry vanished the second the tones dropped. Out here, we were one team with one goal.
We were first on scene by thirty seconds. A sedan lay on its passenger side against the guardrail, roof crumpled where it had made contact. Fluids leaking, that sharp smell of coolant and oil mixing with morning dew.
My training took over. "Benny, position us for a block. Thompson, Martinez, grab the water can and stand by. Truck 12's gonna need room to work."
Miller's crew was already pulling up, their movements efficient and purposeful. I saw O'Malley grabbing the combi tool while Rodriguez set up cribbing. My crew positioned for fire watch — with fluids leaking and a potential ignition source, we couldn't be too careful.
I made my way to the vehicle for patient contact. Inside, a young woman with wide, terrified eyes, suspended by her seatbelt, driver's side door crushed inward.
"Hi, I'm Lieutenant Delgado with the fire department," I said, my voice calm and steady. "We're going to get you out of here. What's your name?"
"Ashley," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I can't... I can't feel my legs."
"Okay, Ashley. Sometimes that happens when you're in this position. We're going to move very carefully. The truck company's the best in the city — they'll have you out in just a few minutes. Can you wiggle your fingers for me?"
She could. Good sign. I kept talking to her, maintaining that calm presence while Miller's crew worked the hydraulics. The sound of tearing metal and breaking glass filled the air, but Ashley's eyes stayed locked on mine.
Jack McKenzie from Medic 402 appeared at my shoulder, his trauma bag in hand. We exchanged a quick, professional nod — I'd been maintaining c-spine stabilization without even thinking about it.
"Patient is conscious and alert, Jack. Complaining of numbness in lower extremities, but that could be positional. Airway's clear. We'll have her out for you in three."
"Copy that, L.T."
In four minutes and thirty seconds, Miller's crew had the door off and the dash rolled. Jack slipped in with a c-collar while I maintained stabilization. Together, we got Ashley on a backboard and into Jack's care. As they loaded her into the ambulance, she grabbed my hand.
"Thank you," she whispered.
"You did great, Ashley. They're going to take good care of you."
It was a clean, efficient operation. Textbook. Engine and truck working together like we'd never exchanged a harsh word. That's what mattered out here.
Back in the engine, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving that familiar post-call quiet. We'd controlled the chaos. We'd fixed the problem. Miller's crew had already left — truck companies always cleared first, the glory boys — but there'd be a case of beer from them in our fridge tomorrow. That was the way it worked. We talked shit, but we took care of each other.
"Good stabilization, L.T.," Thompson said quietly. "That girl was lucky you kept her calm."
"That's the job," I said, but I was thinking about Ashley's eyes, that terror slowly replaced by trust. This was why we did it. This was what made all the false alarms and politics worth it.
But as we drove back to the station, the knot in my stomach returned, tighter than before. In four hours, I'd be sitting in a different kind of chair, watching a different kind of professional try to save someone. I could cut a person out of twisted metal, keep them calm in their worst moment, coordinate a rescue with precision.
But I couldn't cut the cancer out of the man who was more of a father to me than my own had ever been.
And for that problem, there was no tool, no training, no textbook solution. There was only being there, the same way he'd always been there for me.
Three thirty couldn't come fast enough.
