This I definitely need to be a part of.
The alarm on my bedside goes flying as my wrist connects with it. The blackout curtains Mom insisted I have for my long-ass shifts have my room steeped in darkness.
08:15 glares at me in red from the floor, where the alarm lies staring up at the ceiling.
I do the same, arms out wide.
First shift.
First day of my new life.
The vocation I trained, studied, and spent hard-earned sweat and tears on.
Probationary firefighter.
Engine 53.
Kicking my legs and pumping my fists into the air, I lose an excited squeal. “Oh hell.” I groan, rolling over.
Fisting the pillow, I breathe, “Don’t fuck it up, London. Donotscrew this up, girl.”
I can almost hear Kel’s voice in my head.
It took me the entire two years to finish my training, thanks to Mom and I needing to disappear. With over half of the program done, I was kind of shocked to find out I had to start from the beginning in the States. Still, our permanent visas helped.
If this is the one thing I can do to ensure our safety is permanent...
Get up, London.
Get up andget it done.
Renewed with fierce determination, I push up off the bed and stalk for the shower. Washed and ready with my heart racing, I slip on jeans and a T-shirt and swing my bag over my shoulder.
One of the best things about our tiny rent-controlled apartment is its proximity to the firehouse and the shelter. It’s four blocks to the firehouse. And them being in equal and opposite directions, it seemed like a sign. Like the quaint little apartment that’s falling down around us is home. It’s one tiny place of peace on this spinning rock.
Walking out to the kitchen-slash-living area, I find Mom already in a meeting. I lean down and kiss her cheek. Her hand pats my own as she kills the camera feature. “Good luck, bubba. Be safe, hey?”
“Course, Mama.”
She scrunches her face, her hand pressing over her heart. I won’t stay too long, I can tell she’s holding back tears. With a wave, I walk to the front door.
“Give ’em hell, yeah?” she calls out.
“Absolutely!”
I shut the door behind me and skip down the side stairs and spill out onto the sidewalk, heading for the firehouse.
Six minutes later, frosted glass doors hiss open, and I walk over the threshold of 53’s home. The front reception area isold, a weathered wooden counter with a raised back that almost conceals the small woman behind it.
“Can I help you?” she asks, standing as a smile stretches her pretty face. Her short brunette bob is tucked behind her ears, her blue eyes lit with happiness.
“Oh, London Tennison. First shift, new recruit.”
“Oh, hi!” She steps out from behind the desk, and waves to the shiny wooden internal stairs I assume head up to the living space of the firehouse. “Follow me. Which engine are you? Sorry, I haven’t had time to read the updates this week.”
“Fifty-three.”
We ascend the stairs together.
