“You must be the new recruit.” A brawny guy with a full beard and a bag of mixed nuts clutched in his fist jogs toward me. He tips the contents into his mouth, then throws it in thetrash can beside the front door. A jovial look spreads across his whole face when he stops in front of me.
“What gave it away?” I ask.
“You look like that,” he says, pointing to the product in my hair.
I rake my fingers through the pomade. “Last shower for a while.”
Judging by the layer of soot on every inch of his exposed skin, I gather he either tumbled off the edge of a cliff or hasn’t showered in several days.
“Not the only reality check that comes with this job.” He holds out his hand to me.
“Logan Murphy.”
We exchange a firm grip.
“Reed Morgan.”
I shadow him as he pulls open the door to the old building.
“Welcome to Iron Summit, rookie. Sixteen-hour shifts, shitty pay, no benefits.”
All things I probably should have covered when I spoke to the HR recruiter. But I barely had enough time to get here, asking about money wasn’t really on my mind.
“We eat, sleep, and breathe fire,” he continues. “You won’t find a crew stronger or better than this one.”
We take a left turn down a hallway.
“I’ll give you the grand barracks tour.” The passage is so narrow and his voice so deep that it rattles the frames lining the tan walls. Pictures of crews and years of service fill the two cut-out spots in every frame.
Logan turns the gold handle on a glass-paned door at the end. It creaks as it swings inward, exposing a spacious weight room.
“You won’t use this room much because we’re rarely here, but if you need to let out some pent-up frustration, here’s whereyou do it.” He winks at me, and the right side of his ducktail beard lifts with it.
“Good to know,” I say, memorizing the location. I’ll be back here later.
I follow him down another hallway that stretches the back side of the building. An endless row of doors stack like dominos before me.
“Living quarters. Most of the time in the summer months you have to bunk up.”
He stops at the one on the very end and kicks the cracked door open with his boot.
“This one’s yours. You’ll be with McCafferty.” He slaps a hand on my shoulder and laughs. “Good luck, man.”
What isthatsupposed to mean? But he doesn’t give me time to ask. He points to a door at the end of the hall next.
“EMT wing through there. And this”—he takes a couple of steps toward a walled arch in the center—“is the kitchen and family room.”
I follow him through the opening. A twelve-foot farmhouse table that must seat at least a dozen and a half people sits off to the side of the countertop. Six recliners face a TV on the opposite side.
“Hope you can cook, rookie, because no one else here can worth shit.” He chuckles to himself.
Yeah, that’s not going to be a problem for me. Cooking’s a skill I had to master younger than any child should.
“Hey, I heard that.”
From where I’m standing, an upper oak cabinet hangs open. A set of hands pour a cup of coffee behind it, dump in a packet of sugar, and stir the hot drink with a spoon. He’s facing me when the cupboard closes.
“Good to see you again, Morgan.” With a neutral expression,he raises the steaming mug to his lips and takes a lazy drink.
