The newspaper articlewas waiting on my desk when I arrived for shift, folded open to the Metro section like someone had wanted to make sure I wouldn't miss it. The headline read "Rising Star: Lt. Mark Santoro Named Captain of Station 12," and below it was a professionally staged photo of Santoro in his dress uniform, all polished brass and political smile.
I read the article with the same clinical detachment I brought to incident reports, cataloging each carefully crafted quote like evidence in a case file.
"Captain Santoro brings a fresh perspective to Station 12," said Battalion Chief Evans. "His ability to build relationships and work collaboratively with all levels of the department makes him an ideal leader for the next generation of firefighters."
"I'm honored to serve in this capacity," Santoro was quoted as saying. "The fire service is about teamwork and trust. I look forward to building those bonds with my new crew and continuing Summit County's tradition of excellence."
The words were professionally meaningless, the kind of corporate speak that said nothing while sounding impressive. But beneath the sanitized language, I could read the real message.Teamwork.Building relationships.Workingcollaboratively.All coded language for "plays politics better than his female competition."
There was even a sidebar about his "community involvement" — charity golf tournaments, youth sports coaching, the kind of visible civic engagement that looked good in personnel files and promotion boards. The article mentioned his "strong family values" and included a quote from his wife about how proud she was of his advancement.
I folded the paper closed and dropped it in the trash. The first cut was always the deepest, and this one had been designed to wound. Someone — probably Santoro himself — had made sure this would be the first thing I saw when I came to work. A reminder of what I'd lost, what he'd won, and how easily the system had discarded me.
But the blade that was meant to break me only made me harder.
Station 2 felt different now. The easy camaraderie that had defined B-shift for years had been replaced by something more careful, more professional. My crew still respected me — that had never been in question — but the warmth was gone, locked away behind the wall I'd built to protect what remained of myself.
"Morning, L.T.," Thompson said as I walked through the apparatus bay. His greeting was perfectly respectful, but I caught the way his eyes searched my face, looking for some sign of the person I used to be.
"Thompson," I replied with a curt nod. "Equipment checks complete?"
"Yeah, we're all set. Martinez is finishing up the hose bed, and Benny's got the pump panel squared away." He paused, clearly wanting to say something more. "Hey, did you see that bullshit in the paper about —"
"I saw it." My voice was flat, final. "Is there anything requiring my attention?"
Thompson's face fell slightly, the easy joke he'd been building toward dying on his lips. "No, ma'am. We're good to go."
I moved past him toward the engine, checking systems that had already been checked, inspecting equipment that was already perfect. It was busy work, but it kept my hands occupied and my mind focused on concrete, controllable tasks.
Martinez emerged from the back of the engine, looking proud of his work on the hose bed. "L.T., I went with the Minuteman load like you showed me. Took me three tries, but I think I got it right."
I climbed up to inspect his work, noting the precise folds and proper coupling placement. It was flawless — exactly the kind of attention to detail that kept people alive on the fireground.
"Acceptable," I said, jumping down from the truck bed.
Martinez's face fell. In the past, good work had earned him praise, maybe even one of my rare smiles. Now it earned him a single word that felt more like a dismissal than recognition.
"Is there... anything I could do better?" he asked tentatively.
"No. It meets standard."
I walked away, leaving him standing there looking confused and hurt. Behind me, I heard Thompson mutter something to Benny, their voices too low to make out the words but their concern clear in the tone.
The first call of the shift came in just after ten — a vehicle accident with possible entrapment on Highway 45. As we rolled out of the bay, I felt the familiar shift into tactical mode,my mind calculating response times, positioning options, and resource needs.
"Engine 18 on scene," I radioed as we pulled up to find a sedan on its side against a guardrail. "We have one vehicle, driver conscious and alert, possible entrapment. Engine 18 establishing command."
The scene was straightforward — a minor roll-over with the driver trapped by a jammed door. In the past, I would have worked the problem with my crew, teaching Martinez about extrication techniques while Thompson positioned equipment. Today, I issued orders with military precision.
"Martinez, stabilize the vehicle. Thompson, get the spreaders. We're taking the door on the A-side."
"Copy, L.T." Martinez moved to position the cribbing blocks, but he was moving too slowly, checking and double-checking his placement.
"Martinez, move faster," I snapped over the radio. "We don't have all day."
The correction was technically appropriate — speed mattered in extrication — but my delivery was harsh, public, designed to cut rather than teach. Martinez flinched at the tone, his confidence visibly shaking as he hurried to complete the task.
Thompson shot me a look from across the vehicle, something between surprise and concern. In the past, I would have handled Martinez's hesitation with a quiet word, maybe moved him to a different position where he could build confidence. Now I just wanted the job done efficiently, without the messy complications of feelings or mentorship.
