"Thank you, sir."
"Four lives saved. That's remarkable." He held the handshake a beat too long, giving the photographer time to frame the shot. "You're exactly the kind of hero New York needs."
The camera flashed.
"I'm pushing a new public safety initiative through the council," Lang continued, his voice dropping to something more intimate, like we were old friends sharing secrets. "More funding for first responders, better equipment, and the support you all deserve. I hope I can count on the FDNY's support."
"We appreciate anything that helps us do our jobs, sir."
Another photo. Another smile. Then an aide appeared at Lang's elbow, murmuring something about the borough president, and he was gone. Moving on to the next handshake, the next photo op, the next vote to secure.
I watched him go.
"Torres." Garrett appeared beside me, two glasses of champagne in hand. He offered one. "Looked like you needed a rescue."
"My hero." I took the glass. "What'd you think of him?"
Garrett's eyes tracked Lang across the rotunda. Something in his expression sharpened. That analytical focus he got when he was processing information, seeing patterns others missed.
"I think," he said slowly, "that man smiles like someone who's never heard no."
Before I could respond, Shane joined us, Maya and Zoe in tow. My parents weren't far behind, my mom already pulling me into another hug, my dad shaking hands with Rodriguez.
"Proud of you,mijo," my mom whispered against my chest. She smelled like the kitchen I grew up in. Sofrito and comfort and thirty-two years of love.
The firehouse celebration was louder, warmer, and involved significantly more beer than City Hall.
Someone had hung a banner across the engine bay:TORRES — FINALLY GETTING THE RECOGNITION WE'VE BEEN GIVING HIM FOR YEARS. The sheet cake Maya had brought saidNot Bad For A Rookiein blue frosting, which was either a joke about the medal or a dig at the fact that Shane still called me a rookie when he wanted to annoy me.
Probably both.
Zoe had claimed the corner piece and was showing Lucia Rodriguez something on her phone while Marco tried to peek. Shane and my parents were laughing about something by the engine, my dad actuallysmiling, which happened about three times a year.
Garrett was talking with one of the guys from Ladder 118, the kind of low, focused conversation that meant they were either solving a problem or planning three steps ahead. With Garrett, it was usually both.
Captain Rodriguez found me by the coffee maker, hiding from the attention.
"You did good work, Torres. Quick thinking. That family is alive because of you."
"Just doing the job, Cap."
"You're doing more than the job." He leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching the chaos of the celebration with the easy satisfaction of a man who'd built something good. "That's why I want to talk to you about something."
When Rodriguez talked, I listened. Twenty-eight years as a firefighter, twelve as captain. He'd seen it all, survived it, built a life and a family around this work. If anyone knew what was possible in this job, it was him.
"You ever think about getting your paramedic license?"
I had thought about it. Late nights scrolling through program requirements, imagining what it would mean to be on the other side of that certification.
"I've thought about it."
"You should do more than think. You've got instincts, Torres. Good hands, calm head. The kind of firefighter who could run a medical scene, not just assist on one."
He paused, let that land.
"EMT-Basic is fine. It's solid. But Paramedic? That's the next level. That's leadership material."
"I'll think about it, Cap."
