I head toward the front door and pause outside the guest room. The smell of fresh paint wafts through the crack in the door.
Tomorrow, I’ll finish it.
Alison isn’t the only person relying on me anymore and maybe if I show Alison what I’ve been working on, she’ll know I’m serious about our marriage.
Warren: Once the weather clears, could you come over for dinner? I’d like to show you something and talk.
Alison: We’re thinking of traveling to my parents’ this weekend. Can I let you know?
Warren: The roads aren’t safe. Please stay home until the storm passes.
She doesn’t respond and I decide to call her later on during my lunch break.
The drive to the firehouse is a route I know with my eyes closed. When I arrive, it’s chaos, which only worsens when a river close to a busy interstate breaches its banks.
I can’t regret my choice of arriving to work early when it means my attendance is an extra pair of hands, with calls coming in one after the other. Stranded vehicles. Home evacuations. Fallen cable poles. It goes well in to the night, when a call of an overturned car comes in.
We’re not the only station on the scene, and we standby, waiting for further instructions as the first-arriving captain briefs ours.
The usual chatter in the rig stopped hours ago.
We’re all drained, saving our quickly depleting energy for the next call.
Someone bangs on the outside of the engine, and we all jump into action.
I’m soaked through within minutes. The rain is horizontal, battering the side of my face like tiny pinpricks.
Once our equipment is unloaded, we join the others, and I recognize a few of the faces.
“Doesn’t your brother-in-law work at eighty-two?” my crew mate asks.
“Yeah.” I scan the sea of people and find Marcus already striding toward me, shrouded in night, my captain hot on his heels.
“Long night,” I greet. “How you doing?”
He stops in front of me, and the headlights from the engine behind me reveal the distraught look marring his features.
Rain pours down his face, eyes red-rimmed, mouth set in a firm line. We’ve witnessed a lot over the years, and never have I see him look so distressed and visibly torn. We know how to conceal our emotions on duty, waiting until we’re behind closed doors.
“O’Connor, I need you to get back in the truck,” my captain instructs, voice level.
I don’t tear my eyes away from my friend. “What’s going on?”
“O’Connor,” he repeats.
“Marcus.” I close the space between us and grab his shoulder. He’s shaking. “You’re fucking scaring me.”
“Warren.” His voice cracks. “Let’s go talk.”
“Let’s talk here.” My eyes dart between the two men, neither of them saying much. Their faces, while impassive, give everything away. It’s the mask we’re taught to wear when you’re about to share devastating news. News that’ll tell destroy the ground beneath your feet.
News you never want to be on the receiving end of.
Two paramedics walk past, and I catch the tail end of their conversation.
Hydroplaning.
One passenger.
