Cody trails behind us, talking to dispatch as we move into action. A minute later, we’re in the engine, strapped in, headsets on, sirens blaring as we roll out toward the senior center.
Dispatch comes through the headsets. “Alarm is still sounding. Residents continue to refuse to evacuate a third-floor apartment. Everyone else is out of the building. We’ve instructed the staff to stay out and allow you to complete the rescue.”
“Copy,” Greyson says. “We’re about two minutes out.” Then he addresses us. “Firefighters Reed and Collins will go in. O’Connell and I will man the engine and run backup.”
My knee bounces with pent-up energy. I’m going in. I’ve trained for this. I’m ready.
Dustin speaks into his headset. “Collins, stick with me. I’ll show you how this is run. Usually calls to Sycamore are minor or false alarms. But we always go in as if we could be dealing with an actual incident.”
“This time sounds real,” Patrick says.
Greyson doesn’t say anything. He rides along in the officer seat, eyes forward, face neutral.
We pull up in front of a three-story brick building with green shutters and white trim. The lawn is filled with elderly people sitting on benches or standing around, some with walkers, a few in wheelchairs. Aides and staff are mingling between the crowd of people.
I hop out of the engine, securing my SCBA mask to the clip on my chest strap, grabbing the irons and following Dustin while Greyson does a quick three-sixty of the building and Patrick stays with the engine. Dustin’s carrying an extinguisher and the TIC camera to pick up on any hot spots.
“No smoke,” Greyson relays through our earpieces.
“We’re going in,” Dustin says. “Checking the panel on the way in.”
“Copy,” Greyson’s deep, serious voice rings through my ear and I feel it to my toes.
Now is not the time to analyze why. Adrenaline, probably.
“Follow me,” Dustin says. “Just do as I do.”
I nod, following him into the building and racing to the end of the lobby.
He checks the panel. “Room three-sixteen.”
We sprint, boots pounding on the tile floor. Dustin shoves the stairway door open and we take them two at a time. At the top, he assesses for heat, then shoulders into the hallway and runs until he stops short at three-sixteen.
Dustin pulls out the TIC camera. We both watch the display. It’s dark. Low heat with a slightly lighter patch.
“Only one bright spot,” he says.
I jiggle the handle—it’s locked.
“Hello?” Dustin shouts. “We need to come in!”
“Harold?” he adds. “Are you in there?”
“We’re in here!” a woman yells back.
“Open the door!” Dustin shouts.
“No!” the woman shouts. “You can’t come in!”
“If you don’t open it, we’re going to have to force entry!” Dustin shouts.
There’s a beat of silence, then the low murmuring of voices.
Then the same female voice shouts, “Absolutely not!”
Dustin looks at me. “Irons.”
I set the halligan. My hands are steady despite the fact that my skin thrums. I’m so focused, I could cut through the door with my gaze.
