But we’d bought ourselves some time.
And for now, that had to be enough.
Three weeks later, I was running on fumes and stubbornness, and both were running out. Three weeks of twenty-four-hour shifts at the station, dawn chores at the ranch before I left, evening feeds when I got back. Sleeping in snatches that never felt like enough, waking to alarms that blurred together until I couldn't remember which day it was or how long I'd been going.
I told myself I could handle it. That's what Murphy men did. We worked. We provided. We kept our heads down and our hands busy, and we didn't complain about being tired because tired was just part of the job. My father had run this ranch while working construction six days a week. My grandfather had done it while raising four kids. They hadn't needed help. They hadn't asked for it.
Neither would I.
But the cracks were starting to show.
The structure fire came in at 2 AM, third consecutive shift, and I was already running on empty when the tones dropped. Old warehouse on the industrial side of town, flames visible from two blocks away, the kind of fire that ate buildings for breakfast and asked for seconds.
We moved through the motions. Gear on, truck rolling, Cal barking orders through the radio. I was on the nozzle, Owenbacking me up, the heat pressing against my face shield like a living thing.
"Murphy, hold position." Cal's voice crackled through my earpiece. "Wait for ventilation."
I heard him. I knew what he said. But my body was already moving, muscle memory overriding the exhaustion that had turned my brain to static. I pushed forward when I should have held back, crossed a threshold I should have waited for.
The ceiling groaned. Something shifted overhead.
"Murphy! Hold!"
I stopped. Backed up. The beam came down three feet in front of me, showering sparks and ash, close enough that I felt the heat through my turnout gear.
Close enough to kill me if I'd kept moving.
"Head in the game, Murphy." Cal's voice was sharp, controlled, but I could hear the edge underneath. The fear he wouldn't show until later. "You copy?"
"Copy," I managed. "Sorry, Cap."
We finished the job. Knocked down the fire, cleared the building, packed up the gear. Muscle memory carried me through the last steps while my head lagged somewhere behind.
Nobody said anything about my mistake. Nobody had to.
I felt it anyway—the looks that lingered half a second too long, the way Owen stayed closer than usual, like he was double-checking I was still solid. Questions left unspoken. Trust not broken, but tested.
I replayed it in my head as we stripped gear. The step forward. The hesitation that came too late. Three feet. That was all that separated me from a different ending. A phone call Riley wouldn’t know how to answer. A promise broken without ever meaning to break it.
I’d always told myself I was careful. That I didn’t take stupid risks. That I was the guy you could rely on when things went sideways.
Tonight proved how thin that line was.
Exhaustion wasn’t an excuse. It was a liability. And I’d brought it with me into the fire, let it dull the instincts that were supposed to keep everyone standing.
I leaned my helmet against the truck and closed my eyes for a second too long.
I couldn’t afford mistakes. Not here. Not anymore.
Too many people were depending on me staying upright.
Cal found me in the apparatus bay after the call, still in my turnout pants, sitting on the bumper of Engine 7 and staring at nothing.
He didn't ease into it. That wasn't Cal's way.
"When's the last time you slept more than four hours?"
I shrugged. “Been sleeping.”
