Captain Rodriguez was already in the officer's seat when I swung into the jump seat. Shane slid in beside me, Brian on his other side with his medic bag between his feet. Martinez took the wheel, engine rumbling to life as the bay doors rattled open. Sirens split the morning air.
I ran scenarios.
Second-floor windows meant the fire had established itself. Decent ventilation. Could go either way depending on fuel load and construction. Multiple calls meant civilians had noticed, which meant visible flames, which meant past the incipient stage.
Old neighborhood. Pre-war construction. Wood frame, narrow stairs—the kind of building subdivided into too many apartments with too few exits.
My hands were steady. They always were.
We rounded the corner.
Three-story walk-up, old brick—exactly what I'd expected. Smoke poured from a second-floor window. Black and oily. Synthetics burning. Plastics. Foam.
Toxic and fast.
"Engine 295 on scene, establishing command," Rodriguez said into the radio. He turned to us. "Second-floor primary search. Go."
We pulled lines. Martinez and Kowalski took the exterior.
Shane and I went in.
Front door unlocked. Small mercy.
The stairwell was already filling with smoke, visibility dropping with every step. I pulled my mask down. Felt the seal against my face. The hiss of my own breathing, amplified.
We found them on the second floor.
Family of four. Mother, father, two kids pressed against the far wall of a back bedroom—as far from the flames as they could get. The father shielding them with his body. The mother holding her children so tight her knuckles went white in my flashlight beam.
"FDNY! We're getting you out!"
Shane took the kids first. A boy, maybe six, clutching his younger sister like he was the only thing keeping her safe.
He was. That determination in his face—the kind kids shouldn't have to learn but somehow do.
Shane got them both in his arms and turned for the stairs.
I went back for the parents.
The mother was unconscious. Smoke inhalation. The father was dragging her toward the window, his face a mask of terror and desperate hope. I pulled her into a carry, motioned for him to follow.
We moved.
The hallway was an oven. Visibility dropped to nothing. Heat through my gear—that deep, dangerous warmth that meant the fire was growing. Feeding. Getting ready to show us what it could really do.
We made it to the stairs. The kids were already outside—Brian on the radio, calling for more units, reporting two pediatric patients stable. The father behind me, coughing, stumbling, but moving. The mother deadweight on my shoulder.
But she was breathing. Her ribs expanded against my arm.
Everyone was going to make it.
We emerged into sunlight and chaos.
Paramedics rushed forward. The father collapsed beside his wife, grabbing her hand, sobbing something I couldn't hear over the noise. Shane crouched beside the kids, voice low and calm—the way he got when he was making sure someone felt safe.
The little girl was crying.
Maybe four years old. Dark hair tangled and smoke-stained. Tears cut tracks through the soot on her face.
