Thank you.
Jimmy
Do you want me to come over? I could bring food, or just sit with you. Whatever you need.
I’m busy with arrangements.
Jimmy
Izzy, please let me help. You don't have to go through this alone.
I'm fine.
Jimmy
You're not fine. No one would be fine. It's okay to not be fine.
I stared at that message for a long time, feeling something twist in my chest. But I couldn't afford to not be fine. Fine was all I had left.
Funeral is Saturday 10 a.m., Ridge Street Station.
Jimmy
I'll be there. I love you.
I didn't respond to that one.
The next few days passed in a controlled blur of preparation. The Honor Guard took charge of the ceremonial details while I focused on the logistics — coordinating with surrounding departments for mutual aid coverage, arranging for the honor guard from stations across three counties, working with the bagpiper from the Emerald Society. Every detail had to be perfect. Cap deserved perfect.
Thompson found me in the station office Thursday night, meticulously reviewing the funeral program for the dozenth time.
"L.T.," he said, settling into the chair across from my desk. "You've been here for twelve hours. When's the last time you went home?"
"I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked." His voice carried the gentle firmness of someone who'd known me for years. "You haven't eaten today. Martinez brought you a sandwich at lunch and it's still sitting there, untouched."
I looked down at the forgotten sandwich, surprised to see it there. "I'll eat later."
"Izzy." The use of my first name made me look up. Thompson's eyes were kind but worried. "Cap wouldn't want you running yourself into the ground over his funeral. You know that."
"Cap would want everything done right."
"Cap would want you to take care of yourself." Thompson leaned forward. "Talk to me, kid. What's going on in that head of yours?"
I met his eyes, saw the genuine concern there, and felt something crack in my chest. For just a moment, I wanted to tell him everything — about Jimmy's distance, about my fears for the promotion, about the crushing weight of being strong when all I wanted to do was fall apart.
Instead, I felt the wall slam back into place, stronger than before.
"I'm fine, Thompson. Just want everything to be right for him."
Thompson studied my face for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright. But I'm driving you home tonight. And you're eating that sandwich first."
Saturday morning dawned gray and cold, appropriate weather for a line-of-duty funeral. I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, adjusting my dress uniform with mechanical precision. Black mourning band across my badge. White gloves spotless. Every brass button polished to a mirror shine. Cap had always said you could tell everything you needed to know about a firefighter by how they maintained their dress uniform.
The Ridge Street Station was transformed into a staging area for what would be one of the largest firefighter funerals the region had seen in years. Departments from across three states had sent representatives. The apparatus bay had been cleared and filled with chairs, the massive overhead doors open to accommodate the overflow crowd that spilled onto the street.
I found myself checking and rechecking details that had already been checked — the positioning of the honor guard, the timing of the bagpiper, the route for the procession. Control. I could control these things when I couldn't control anything else.
