God, I miss it.
I miss the weight of the gear on my shoulders.
The heat on my skin.
The rush—when it’s just you and the flame and every second counts.
Back when I was still a firefighter, there was nothing else like it.
No feeling more real than running toward what everyone else was running from.
It burned me. And I still wanted more.
Now, I’m an EMT.
Still in the game.
Still doing what I can to help—to serve, to save.
But it’s different.
Now I’m what comes after the burn.
Now I patch what's left.
The house fire we’ve been called to is a monster.
Too hot.
Too fast.
Too far gone.
It’s not a living room blaze or a kitchen flare-up.
This one is hungry.
It’s the kind of fire that eats through everything—wood, memory, lives.
It climbs and curls and collapses roofs with zero hesitation.
Police are already shouting arson.
Which means someone fed this thing on purpose.
And that makes me sick.
But still... some traitorous part of me is vibrating beneath the surface.
Not from fear.
Not even from adrenaline.
From recognition.
Because fire is a test.
Every single time.
