"The emergency already happened," Wall points out.
"In case of second emergency."
Can't argue with that logic.
Twenty minutes later, the bar looks... well, not good, but significantly better thanarson scene.
The team's gathered around, sweaty and disheveled, looking pleased with themselves in that way hockey players do when they've accomplished something physical.
Devon hops down from the bar—when did he climb back up?—and immediately slips on a wet patch.
I catch his elbow before he goes down.
"Careful."
"Thanks." He's got a small cut on his cheek, probably from the glass. There's a smudge of something—foam? Soot?—on his forehead. His hair is even more chaotic than before. "You think we're in the clear?"
"For now."
He grins. "Well, that was fun."
"Your definition of fun is deeply concerning."
"I've been told."
The team's starting to relax now. Someone's laughing. Becker's doing an impression of Petrov attacking the fire, complete with Russian accent and dramatic hand gestures. Petrov's laughing too hard to be offended.
I turn to Devon. "So, are you the new manager or something?"
"Me? No, not yet. It's my first day."
I blink. "What?"
"First day. Started at five. It's now—" he checks his phone "—eight-thirty-seven. So I've been employed here for approximately three and a half hours."
I stare at him. "You've been here for three hours, and you just organized twenty athletes like a military operation."
He shrugs. "Someone had to. You guys were running around like a bunch of concussed penguins."
"We were helping!"
"You were creating performance art titledHow to Make Things Worse."
I'm about to respond—with what, I don't know, because my brain's working overtime just processing the past half hour—when the front door flies open.
A woman stumbles inside.
The bar goes dead silent.
That instant, eerie quiet that happens when something's very wrong.
She's maybe mid-sixties, elegantly dressed in a silk blouse and tailored slacks. But the blouse has tears in it. Long, jagged tears, like something clawed through the fabric.
And her face.
There are scratches on her face. Three parallel lines down her left cheek, red and angry, still bleeding slightly. Her hair's mussed. She's breathing hard, like she ran here.
She looks around the bar, eyes wide and unfocused, like she's not quite sure where she is.
