Clarence jumps onto my kitchen counter and settles into a loaf position. Those eyes don't miss a thing.
I pour my coffee. Pour Gemma's coffee into the blue mug with the chipped handle. Clarence's stare burns into the back of my skull.
"It's not a big deal," I say. "We're neighbors. Neighbors do neighborly things."
The cat stares at me.
"I'm being friendly. Civic-minded." I keep defending my actions to him.
Clarence yawns, showing all his teeth and a pink tongue.
"You don't know what you're talking about," I inform him. "You're a cat. You lick your own ass for entertainment."
He ignores this. Starts grooming one paw with deliberate, insulting slowness.
I grab Gemma's mug and head for the door. Clarence follows, padding silently behind me.
I set the mug on the ledge outside her door and retreat to my house. Through the kitchen window, I watch the driveway. Right on schedule, her Honda pulls in.
Clarence sits on my porch step, watching her park. Watching me watch her.
I turn away from the window before she can catch me staring.
A minute later, I hear her soft laugh through the wall. The sound of ceramic lifting from the ledge.
I drink my coffee and refuse to examine my life choices.
The structure fire on Birch Street starts as a small kitchen grease fire and escalates into something uglier fast.
Smoke billows black and thick when we round the corner. By the time Engine 7 arrives, flames are eating through the roof, licking forty feet into the air. The heat hits us even before we're out of the truck---a wall of it that makes the air shimmer and distort. The family is out---neighbor's got them wrapped in blankets on the lawn, kids crying, dad with soot on his face and shock in his eyes---but the house is fully involved.
The windows blow out as we're gearing up. Glass explodes outward, tinkling across the lawn like deadly rain.
"Johnson, Martinez, primary search," I call out, my voice cutting through the chaos. "Webb, Thompson, exposure protection on the north side. Whitaker, pull the line and hit this from the southwest corner."
My crew moves without hesitation, without second-guessing.
My first week here, they would've stood there waiting for me to prove myself. New captain, unknown quantity, no verdict yet. Harrison had warned me about command problems. They don't trust you until you earn it.
Funny how a few structure fires and some midnight training sessions can change things.
The fire fights back hard. The wind shifts, pushing flames toward the neighboring houses, embers spiraling up into thedarkening sky like angry fireflies. But we've got the exposures protected, water flowing where it needs to go, and a crew that works like they've been doing this together for years.
By the time we knock it down, smoke still rising in grey columns, we've saved both neighboring houses and recovered a family photo album from the master bedroom that has the owner crying with gratitude on the front lawn.
"Good work, Cap," Johnson says, clapping me on the shoulder as we pack up. Sweat runs down his face, leaving clean tracks through the soot.
"Team effort," I reply, but I catch the look Thompson and Webb exchange. Something shifted today.
Station 7 is coming together. Finally.
Lunch at The Watershed is Aiden's idea.
"You look like you need a burger," he'd said when he called. "And possibly beer. Definitely beer."
I don't know how he could tell over the phone, but he wasn't wrong.
Now I'm sitting in a corner booth with Aiden and Derek, watching Derek complain about the new parking restrictions on Main Street while he systematically destroys a basket of fries.
