“Ah, with Hammond and Schmidt. Great crew.” She smiles, but it doesn’t meet her eyes, not this time.
Okay . . .
“Shoot! I should have grabbed you a locker key. You go on up, and I’ll meet you up there, in the common room?”
“Sure.” I grip my backpack strap and return the smile that’s too flat, too tentative.
No, London. Not this time. You are right where you’re supposed to be. Head up, girl, because we are doing this.
I take the remaining steps two at a time, if only to prove my own point.
I stop short when I reach the top. The place is old. Like, really old. The polished wooden... everything is showing age. To the left is the common room that also serves as the crew kitchen. To the right is a long corridor that must end in the bathrooms, if the hiss of the showers is any indication. Flanking the hallway are the small bunk rooms.
I step forward, peering inside the first one with its door open.
The old metal bunk has a standard-issue mattress folded in half. The small bedside locker is open, the key in the lock. Apart from its sparsity, the room is neat as a pin and cleaned to a shine.
“Good, you found it,” the woman says from behind me. “This will be your bunk. Your fellow new recruit will have one on the far end, opposite side. Boys and girls areas and all that.”
Okay, old school.
“My name is Cora. Sorry, I forgot to mention that. I always forget new people don’t know me since I’m only here a couple hours during the week.” She shifts on her feet, her hands smoothing over her tweed pencil skirt. Her navy blouse with a bow finish at her breastbone is tucked in, and her brown flats are so—Wendy.
I tamp back the chuckle.
At least Cora pulls off the cat-lady look better than my last coworker. She looks sweet. I like her already.
“Lovely to meet you, yeah.” I hold out a hand.
She shakes it softly. “Are you from Australia?”
“New Zealand, actually. People mix the accent up all the time.”
“Oh, sorry.” She dips her gaze to the floor but raises it after a beat. “So, your uniforms are already in your locker, number six. You’ll need to dress and present at nine sharp at your engine for roll call, etc.”
“Okay, thanks.”
She gives me one last smile before disappearing down the stairs.
I check my phone.
08:57
Shit.
I toss my backpack on the wire springs of the bunk and head for the lockers I assume are in the bathroom area.
Two minutes later I’m decked out in FDNY uniform and wrangling my hair up into a bun as I take the stairs two at a time. With barely seconds to spare, I fall in line with two others in front of 53.
I thought we were a full crew?
A few sideways glances move my way, but nobody speaks as the big red door to the captain’s office swings open and not one, but three, men walk out. Their expressions are... stone.
The heady buzz of nerves I’ve been ignoring all morning slips past my facade, sending my hands shaking. I clasp them tighter in front of me, wiggling my toes.
I am doing this.
Come on, girl, you got this.
