The cat appears on the porch like he's been summoned, winding between Gemma's legs before settling himself directly between her and Ivy. He sits there, tail wrapped around his paws, staring at my daughter with the intensity of a Secret Service agent.
"Clarence is making sure you're being NICE to Gemma, Daddy!" Ivy calls through the screen.
I'm not even on the porch. "I'm in the kitchen!"
"He KNOWS!"
Gemma laughs---bright and unguarded, the kind that comes before someone can think better of it. My hands stop moving inthe water. There's something warm behind my sternum that has no business being there.
Heartburn. Definitely heartburn.
I go back to washing dishes that don't need washing.
By the end of the week, it's a routine.
Ivy finishes dinner in record time, then hovers by the back door like a sprinter waiting for the starting gun. The second she hears Gemma's door open, she's gone---dinosaurs in hand, ready to explain the latest volcanic activity theories.
I let it happen.
I tell myself it's because policing every interaction would be exhausting, and Gemma seems to genuinely enjoy it---or at least perform enjoyment convincingly enough to fool a six-year-old. I tell myself Ivy needs interaction with people who aren't her father or her teacher. I tell myself six weeks will pass before Ivy gets too attached.
I tell myself a lot of things while standing at the kitchen sink.
My first real test at Station 7 comes on shift.
The call comes in mid-afternoon---residential fire on Oak Street. Possibly electrical. I grab my gear, watching the crew move around me. They're efficient, professional, but I can feel them watching too. Waiting to see what the new captain from Seattle is actually made of.
Oak Street turns out to be a small craftsman with smoke pouring from the second floor. Elderly couple on the lawn, the woman crying, the man trying to explain something about a space heater.
I assess the scene in thirty seconds. Fire's contained to one room, structural integrity looks good, no signs of spread to the attic. We can do this fast and clean.
"Rivera, you're on primary search with me. Nakamura, backup line. Deluca, ventilation. Harrison, check exposures." I keep my voice level, calm. Not barking orders, just stating facts. "Let's make it quick and safe."
We move. The crew falls into formation like they've been doing this together for years---because they have, just not with me. I'm the variable. The unknown.
Inside, it's hot but manageable. The fire's in the bedroom, eating through the wall behind the space heater. Rivera and I clear the room, confirm no one's inside, then get the line on it. The whole thing takes maybe twelve minutes.
Outside, I do the walkthrough with the homeowners. Explain what happened, where the damage is, what needs to happen next. The woman's still crying, so I keep my voice gentle. Professional. By the time I'm done, the adrenaline has burned off and left something quieter in its place --- the particular stillness that comes after a call goes right.
When I turn back to the engine, Rivera gives me a nod. Just a small one, but it counts. So does the way Deluca doesn't make eye contact---respect, not hostility.
My shoulders drop half an inch. I didn't notice they'd been up.
These people are good at their jobs. So am I. Both things are true at the same time, and for the first time since Seattle, it doesn't feel like something I have to argue for.
I'll take it.
That evening, Rivera catches me before I leave the station. C-shift is already rolling in for the night, the handoff happening with the easy efficiency of people who've done this a thousand times.
"Few of us are heading to The Watershed for a beer," he says. "You should come. Meet some people."
It's an olive branch. The kind you don't refuse when you're trying to build trust with a new crew.
"Yeah. Sure."
"Good." He claps me on the shoulder. "Fair warning---Big Jim will probably adopt you. He does that with new people."
The Watershed turns out to be exactly what I expected---wood paneling, mounted fish that have seen better days, the smell of spilled beer and decades of the same conversations. The kind of bar that's been here longer than most of the town. Rivera and Deluca claim a table in the back. I head to the bar for a round.
