“I’ll get the school on the phone now. I’m sure they will appreciate it.”
Ten minutes later, after receiving confirmation, I’m slamming the fire truck door and heading to the school. As usual, the kids perk up through the windows as soon as they see the big red thing pulling in.
It’s a small school with only a few classrooms. I disturb the whole establishment when I walk in through reception in heavy duty boots, towering over everything. The furniture is all miniature. Tiny chairs are arranged around tiny tables, which makes the whole place look like it was built for dolls.
“You will be talking in the main assembly room this morning,” says the receptionist. Like the kids, she gives me a look of infatuation, though hers is more mature.
Everyone trusts that you know how to save the day.
Children hurry excitedly into the assembly hall and take their seats. I catch a glimpse of Ellie from the front and wave hello.Sonny is only a short distance away, whispering something to his friends and pointing.
If only I had superhuman hearing to know what he’s saying about me.
The talk falls right out of me, having done it countless times before in the city. Seeing the kids and the community always grounds me to a certain extent, reminding me who I’m doing all of this for. But every time I look out into the crowd and see the school kids listening intently to everything I have to say, I feel doubt pinch at my rib cage.
You can’t save everyone.
That is the real, harsh truth when it comes to fire safety.
“How do you become a firefighter?” is a question I get asked at least once every time I do this. And today is no exception.
I feel the boys gravitate toward me in the room as I explain the training and procedures in simple terms, finishing off my answer with the classic: “But you will need to work hard in school and pass all of your exams.”
The teachers always appreciate that one.
Another hand sticks up in the room, and this one belongs to Ellie. I’ve never done a talk at her school before, so it feels strange having her wave her hand at me.
“This is my dad.” She says it with so much pride that she feels the need to stand up. “And he’s a hero.”
I bow my head in acknowledgement. Little does she know, I’m doing all of this for her.
But a hero?
No firefighter is a hero.
Fire tears through my home in terrifying orange streaks.
I have SATs tomorrow. And now my room is on fire.
I choke on smoke before I have time to properly wake up.
Shit. Everything is happening all at once. My chest is pounding, Fire tears through the roof and causes debris to fly into my room. But it’s my mother’s scream that sends me into panic mode.
The scream she never gets to finish.
“Mom!” I rip out my vocal cords, yelling for her…and only swallow more toxic smoke.
I need to get out.
I need to salvage an escape while I still have one.
Flames are eating up my bedroom, getting closer.
I throw one of my boots at the window, shattering the glass. And jump without thinking twice. I land wrong on my ankle, and find that I’m the only one of my family outside of the wreckage.
It’s difficult to see anything through the thick clouds of smoke, and with the ankle I’m sure is broken, it’s impossible for me to get up.
Pain throbs in my leg.
