Of courage. Of instinct. Of heart.
And I’ve never been able to turn away from that test.
Not then.
Not now.
Maybe not ever.
I glance at my partner for the night. Never had one who sticks longer than a few weeks, so no, I don’t bother learning much about him.
I think his name is Diaz. Could be he goes by Steve.
Anyway, he’s leaning against the rig, phone out, watching his goddamn Instagram reel highlights like this is background noise instead of a nightmare.
He wants to get famous or something. Thinks he can do that by playing the hero.
Whatever. Good for him.
Right now, we have a job to do.
“Get ready,” I snap, already stepping out of the ambulance.
Three firetrucks. Half a dozen police cars. The house itself is one of those historic monsters downtown—you know the kind. Old as hell, expensive to touch, protected by town council red tape and a hundred years of bad decisions.
Old wiring.
Dusty carpets.
Rotting beams.
Musty curtains.
It’s a historical death trap just waiting for a spark.
And tonight, it got one.
Flames chew through the upper floors, windows blown out, smoke pouring like a living thing into the sky.
The smell hits hard—burning wood, melted plastic, electrical wire.
It coats the back of my throat, triggering memories better left forgotten.
My father collapsed, unconscious on the floor. Black smoke filling the apartment. My eyes burning. My mother trying to lift him up, screaming at me to run.
I push them down, rubbing my fingers across the scar on my left wrist. A gruesome souvenir. Physical proof that I survived the fire that claimed both my mother and father.
It reminds me that yes, I was there.
Also, and maybe more importantly, that I’m here now. Alive.
“Is everyone out?” a cop shouts to a firefighter hauling hose.
The firefighter shakes his head, visor smeared with soot.
“Still looking for one. A child. Six years old.”
My heart squeezes so hard it almost hurts to breathe.
