Heat intensifies near the mechanical room. That's not the source, but it's close. Radio chatter filters through—Thompson's crew is hitting the actual fire from the loading dock, making progress. My job is simpler: get everyone out.
The basement stairs disappear into smoke and heat shimmer. Coughing echoes from below. I follow the sound through the haze and find them near the electrical panels—two maintenance guys, one supporting the other.
"Can you walk?" I ask the stronger one.
"Yeah, but Edgar's ankle?—"
"I got him." Edgar's maybe seventy, slight build, wheezing but conscious. I get him over my shoulder, tell the other guy to hold my belt. We move slow, deliberate. No heroics, just procedure. Up the stairs, through the corridor, following my mental map while the building groans around us.
Fresh air hits like salvation. EMTs take Edgar, oxygen mask sliding over his face while his buddy collapses on the curb, shaking. Alive though. Both alive.
"All clear from the basement," I radio, pulling my mask up to breathe real air.
"Copy. Primary search complete. Switching to defensive attack."
That means everyone's out. The relief hits harder than the heat did. We shift to containment—protecting exposures, keeping it from spreading. Systematic, methodical work that doesn't make headlines but saves structures.
The crowd's grown. Half the town, looks like. That's when I spot her—Piper with Dotty and others from the Bean, distributing coffee and blankets to displaced workers. No camera visible. Just helping.
Our eyes meet across the chaos and she starts toward me, but Chief calls my name. I turn back to the work. There's always more work.
It takes another hour to call it controlled—not a full knock-down, but safe enough for the investigation crew. We start cleanup: rolling hose, checking for extensions, all the unglamorous work nobody sees. My hand throbs where I brushed something hot helping Edgar, but it's minor compared to how exhausted everyone else is.
By the time we're released, the sun's setting. I drive home smelling like smoke and chemicals, exhaustion settling into my bones. All I want is my cabin, a beer, and silence.
What I get is Piper on my porch with a covered plate and worried eyes.
"You okay?" She reaches toward my face, maybe to wipe away soot, but stops herself.
"Fine,” I say. “Normal call."
"Normal." She laughs, but it's shaky. "You ran into a burning building."
"That's literally the job."
"I know. I just..." She trails off, notices me rotating my left wrist. "You're hurt."
"It's nothing."
"Show me."
I could argue, but I'm too tired. Inside, she examines the burn across my palm—first degree, maybe three inches long. Not serious but annoying. Should've been more careful with that door handle.
"You have first aid supplies?"
"Bathroom cabinet."
She returns with gauze and burn cream, sets up at my kitchen table like it's an operating room. Her touch is gentle, clinical at first, then softer as she works. The domesticity catches me off guard—Piper in my space, taking care of something I would've ignored.
"This might scar," she says quietly, spreading cream over the burn.
"Won't be the first."
"Do they all have stories?"
"Most."
She starts wrapping gauze, precise and careful. The silence stretches, comfortable but weighted. I watch her concentrate, tongue poking out slightly. When did I start noticing details like that?
