Devon surveys the wreckage like a general surveying a battlefield.
Then he starts pointing.
"Russian!" He points at Petrov. "Excellent work on the fire. Now go find more extinguishers in case that tree decides to make a comeback."
Petrov nods sharply and takes off like he's been given a mission from God.
"You! Funny guy." Devon points at Becker. "Stop picking up glass with your hands before you need a transfusion. There's a broom in the back. Get it. Use it."
"Giant!" Devon points at Wall. "Tables. Get them upright. You're built like a tank, use it."
Wall just nods and starts hauling tables like they weigh nothing.
Devon's on a roll now, pointing at people rapid-fire.
"Redhead!" Jinx looks up, startled. "Stop fondling your pocket and help the Giant!"
"I'm not—" Jinx starts.
"Yes, you are! Every five seconds! Move!"
Jinx goes.
"You three!" Devon gestures at Groover, Snooze, and Hammer. "Glass crew. Blondie's getting the broom. You follow his lead. Try not to bleed on anything."
They scramble into formation.
Devon turns to Washington. "You look responsible. Congrats. You're with me. We need to document the damage."
Washington pulls out his phone without argument. I think he's too impressed to protest.
Then Devon's eyes land on me.
"You. The Ha—" He cuts himself off. "You're on crowd control. Make sure no one else comes in. And check if anyone's injured."
He says it so casually, so confidently, like he's been running disaster relief operations his whole life. It's fucking hilarious.
"On it," I say.
I do a sweep of the bar, checking on everyone. A few minor cuts from the glass. Nothing serious. Becker has a smallnick on his palm that he's proudly showing off like a war wound. "Babes dig scars," he announces.
"That's not a scar. That's a scratch," Groover says.
"It'll be a scar if I believe hard enough."
I move through the space, helping where I can. Righting chairs. Making sure the patrons who were here—the ones who didn't flee during the fire—are okay.
Devon and Washington are documenting everything, taking photos, making lists. Devon's rattling off items at lightning speed while Washington types furiously.
"One Christmas tree, deceased. One sound system, possibly deceased, definitely traumatized. Approximately forty-seven glasses—"
"You can't know it's forty-seven," Washington interrupts.
"Fine. Approximately a shit-ton of glasses. How's that for documentation?"
I'm trying not to laugh as I pick up pieces of what used to be a barstool.
Petrov returns with three more fire extinguishers and positions them around the bar like he's fortifying a bunker. "In case of emergency," he says solemnly.
