“High heat, low visibility,” Denver says behind me.
“Stay right wall.”
We move low and fast. The stairs are halfway down the hall, already charring at the edges.
“He was in his bedroom!” the woman screams from outside. I can hardly hear her over the house burning. “He was taking a nap!”
I don’t answer her. I can’t. But I do listen and rush up the stairs. Each one groans under my weight. The smoke makes it impossible to see a damn thing. I flip on the thermal imaging camera and scan.
“Left side’s lit up,” Denver says.
“Engine’s hitting it,” I respond. “Keep moving.”
We sweep the first bedroom. Clear.
Second room—the door is shut.
I feel it with the back of my glove.
Hot.
“Ready?” I ask.
Marco nods, so we force it open.
The room is thick with smoke and dark. I drop low and sweep with my arm, moving inward. The TIC picks up a small heat signature on the far side.
“Got something,” I say.
I move fast, pushing debris aside. My hand hits something soft and warm.
“Got someone!” I bark.
He’s maybe six. Curled up on the floor in the corner near the closet.
I scoop him up, tucking him against my chest and shielding his face with my coat. He’s limp—too much for my liking, but we need to get out of here before I can do anything about that.
“Stairs!” I shout.
The hallway flashes brighter, the fire licking across the ceiling.
“Go, go, go!” Marco yells.
We move fast but controlled, back down the stairs and out the front door and into cold air. I drop to my knees as EMS rushes forward.
“Second floor, rear bedroom,” I say, already standing again. “Search not complete.”
The kid coughs just once. But it’s enough.
I don’t wait to see more. I turn and head back inside to keep looking. And it’s a good thing I do, because I save their dog, and sometimes, that’s the extra win I need.
Twenty minutes later, the fire’s out. Searches are clear. There are no other victims. No deaths. It was bad, but with a positive outcome.
I’m leaning against the squad truck, helmet off, sweat cooling too fast on my skin.
The kid is in the ambulance. Alive.
His mother sobs against a paramedic, blaming herself for not getting to him before leaving the house. That’s what they do—it’s what they all do. Guilt will eat at her for months, maybe years, but I can’t be their therapist too.
