I'm out of the bunkroom and in my gear before my brain fully catches up to my body. Muscle memory from a decade of emergency calls. Bobby's already on Engine 3, and I swing into my usual seat as the bay doors roll open.
The radio crackles. "Structure fire, 1247 Timber Ridge Road. Family evacuated, possible person still inside."
The scene is chaos controlled by training. Flames punch through the roof, orange against the black sky. Chief Walsh is already directing crews, his voice cutting through the roar of the fire and the rumble of engines. Tommy's checking connections on the hose lines.
"Lockwood!" Chief spots me as I jump down from Engine 3. "Gear up. Witness says there might be someone in the back bedroom. You and Bobby, two minutes max."
"Copy."
The weight of the gear settles familiar and heavy across my shoulders. The SCBA mask goes on, cutting off the world to just the sound of my own breathing and the crackle of the radio. Bobby and I move together, trained by years of working side by side.
The heat hits first. Even through the gear, it's oppressive. Smoke hangs thick and black, visibility maybe two feet. We move fast but methodical, checking every room. The cabin's layout is standard—living area, kitchen, two bedrooms in the back.
"Clear!" Bobby calls from the first bedroom.
I push into the second. The smoke is thicker here, rolling across the ceiling in angry waves. My light catches a shape on the floor near the closet. Small. Child-sized. Not moving.
My heart slams against my ribs.
"Got them!" I key my radio. "Back bedroom, victim down. It's a kid."
Bobby's beside me in seconds. We check for breathing—shallow but present. Together we lift, moving as fast as safety allows. The roof groans ominously. Chief's voice in my ear: "Thirty seconds, boys. Structure's compromised."
We make it out with fifteen seconds to spare.
The roof collapses in a shower of sparks as we clear the porch. Bobby and I hand off the little girl—maybe five years old, limp but breathing—to the paramedics. They wrap her in blankets, start oxygen.
A woman's scream cuts through the chaos. "Emma! Oh my God, Emma!"
The parents. Running toward us. The mom collapses beside the gurney, sobbing. The dad has his arm around a boy, maybe seven, who's crying too.
The little girl—Emma—coughs. Opens her eyes. Starts crying for her mom.
The paramedic catches my eye, gives me a nod. She'll be okay.
The adrenaline crash hits about twenty minutes later, once the fire's contained and we're packing gear. My hands shake slightly as I coil hose lines. They always do after a rescue. Dad's hands used to shake too, after calls. He said it was the body remembering to be scared after the fact.
"Good work tonight." Chief appears beside me, holding two thermoses of coffee that materialized from somewhere. He always has coffee. "Clean entry, clean exit. Your dad would've been proud."
His words hit like a sucker punch below my ribs, forcing out air I didn't know I was holding.
"He would've told me the structure assessment was sloppy," I say, taking the thermos.
"He would've." Chief's smile is sad around the edges. "Then he would've bought you breakfast and told everyone at The Ashwood Café how you saved that kid's life."
We stand there for a moment, watching the crews finish mopping up. The stars are impossibly bright above the smoke, the kind of clarity you only get in deep winter. The little girl's parents are still with the ambulance, refusing to leave their daughter's side even though the paramedics keep saying she's fine.
"He died doing this," I say quietly. "Ran into a building everyone said was clear. Found a family hiding in a closet, got them out. Roof came down thirty seconds after."
"I know. I was there."
"You ever regret it? The job?"
Chief takes a long drink of his coffee, considering. "Your dad used to say firefighting was the only job where you lefteverything on the field every single time. No half measures. No phone-it-in days. You were all in or you were a liability." He looks at me. "He also said it was the best feeling in the world, knowing you'd spent your life mattering."
"Even if that life was shorter because of it?"
"He knew the risks. Made his peace with them." Chief's hand lands on my shoulder, heavy and warm through the gear. "And he knew he was raising a son who'd understand why he made the choices he did."
