My mama’s voice still echoed in my ears as I pulled into the fire station parking lot. Two hours of her particular brand of loving assault—half hugs, half scolding about my “sneaking back into town like some kind of criminal”—had left me with the beginning of a headache.
“Would it have killed you to call ahead? I’d have made your favorite pot roast. I’d have changed the sheets in your old room. I’d have?—”
I’d cut her off there, explaining for the third time that the lack of notice was precisely the point. Last thing I needed was a MacAvoy family welcome-home extravaganza with every distant cousin and neighbor within fifty miles showing up to ask questions I wasn’t ready to answer. I’d successfully avoided that by delaying my return home until after the rest of my unit.
Fire Station 1 loomed ahead. The sight of the familiar brick building loosened something tight in my chest. I killed the engine and sat for a moment, taking it in. Same faded red doors. Same flagpole with Old Glory snapping in the breeze. Same basketball hoop with the bent rim from when Miller had tried to dunk after a twenty-four-hour shift and missed spectacularly.
Home. The kind that didn’t come with maternal interrogations.
I grabbed the paper bag from the passenger seat—a peace offering of sorts—and headed for the side entrance. The door was propped open with the same cinder block that had been doing that job since before I joined the crew.
The smell hit me first—that distinct mix of industrial cleaner, coffee, and gear that never quite lost the smoke smell no matter how many times it went through the washer. My shoulders dropped another inch.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Chief Holloway stood in the doorway to his office, coffee mug frozen halfway to his mouth, eyes wide beneath his perpetually furrowed brows.
“Tater MacAvoy.” He set his mug down and crossed the room in three strides, pulling me into a bear hug that threatened to crack ribs. My bad shoulder twinged. “Why the hell didn’t you tell us you were coming?”
“Been getting that question a lot today.” I returned the hug, then held up my paper bag. “Brought some tamales from El Arroyo as a bribe to get back in everyone’s good graces.”
“Did someone say tamales?” A voice boomed from around the corner.
Before I could answer, Meatball—Costello—skidded into view, nearly colliding with the equipment rack. His eyes lit up when he saw me, then immediately narrowed on the bag in my hand.
“MacAvoy, you beautiful bastard!” He lunged forward, making a grab for the food.
I lifted the bag above my head. “Easy there, Meatball. Don’t make me remind everyone about the spaghetti incident.”
“One time,” he groaned. “Face-plant into pasta one time, and they never let you forget it.”
Heavy footsteps thundered down the stairs, and suddenly the room was filling with familiar faces. Sato—Moose—appeared, ducking his head under the doorframe out of habit, though he had at least three inches of clearance.
“Holy shit, Tater’s back!” He bellowed, then promptly knocked over the coat rack as he turned to call up the stairs. “Guys! Get down here!”
Russo—Twitch—bounded into the room, leg already bouncing like he’d mainlined caffeine. “MacAvoy! When’d you sneak back into town?” His eyes darted between my face and the bag. “Are those from El Arroyo? The ones with the green sauce?”
“Would I bring anything else?” I set the bag on the table before they tore my arm off.
Ferguson—Donkey—came in last, spatula still in hand. “I was making waffles, but—“ He broke into a grin when he saw me. “Well, look what the cat dragged in.”
“Speaking of food,” Chief Holloway said, “maybe let the man breathe before you vultures descend on his peace offering.”
But I waved him off. “Let ’em at it. That’s why I brought extra.”
They fell on the tamales like they hadn’t eaten in days. The familiar chaos of it all—Meatball arguing with Twitch about who got the last container of green sauce, Moose carefully unwrapping his like it might explode, Donkey comparing the masa to his waffle batter—warmed something in my chest.
This. This was what I’d missed most. Not just the job, but these idiots. My brothers.
I leaned against the counter, my shoulders relaxing fully for the first time since the accident. The banter, the laughter—it was like stepping back into my own skin after months of wearing someone else’s.
“So how’s the shoulder, man?” Moose asked around a mouth full of tamale. “You still doing PT?”
The room quieted a bit, all eyes shifting my way. I rolled my bad shoulder instinctively, feeling the pull of scar tissue. I’d been warned that some degree of that would be my new normal.
“Better than the docs expected.” I found myself saying more than I’d told even my family. “Still hurts like a son of a bitch when the weather changes, but I’ve got about eighty percent range of motion back. Got about a month of rehab left before they’ll clear me for active duty. Been doing the exercises twice a day, every day. Figure if I stay religious about it, might even get back sooner.”
“Don’t rush it,” Chief said, giving me that paternal look that always made me feel like I was twenty-two again. “Rather have you back at a hundred percent than ninety and re-injuring yourself first call out.”
