Rivera starts in on another story about a chimney cat from his probie days and Ty groans because he’s heard it already, but Cal hasn’t. Cal’s reaction alone is worth the retelling. “The cat was FINE,” Rivera says. “The chimney wasn’t.”
“What happened to the chimney?” Cal asks.
“We took it apart,” Rivera says, like it’s the dumbest question he’s ever heard.
“You TOOK APART a chimney for a CAT?” Cal says.
“Station 7 doesn’t leave anybody behind,” Rivera says. “Including cats.”
“The homeowner cried,” Ty adds. “Then the cat bit Rivera.”
“The cat was stressed,” Rivera says, with dignity.
Diaz, who treats conversations the way most people treat dental work, sets down his fork. “We had a burnover in the Cascades.” Flat. Even. The table goes quiet because when Diaz talks, it means something. “Deployed shelters. Fire went over us like a freight train. Came out the other side and the first thing Navarro said was ‘My sandwich was in the truck.’”
Navarro doesn’t deny it. “It was a good sandwich.”
“See?” Derek says, pointing at the table like he’s proving a point. “This is why hotshots are insane. The mountain is on fire and they’re worried about lunch.”
“It wasn’t a mountain,” Diaz says. “It was a drainage.”
“THAT’S WORSE.”
“That’s the job,” I say.
Cal leans back in his chair, grinning. “So, Sullivan. The vet. What’s her name?”
“Dr. Hartley.”
“Her first name.”
“Didn’t ask.”
Cal stares. Ty shakes his head. Derek, across the table, looks at me like I’ve personally failed him.
“It’s Sloane,” Derek says. “Janet told me. You’re welcome.”
“Prediction,” Cal says to the table. “Six weeks.”
“There’s no prediction.”
“There’s a whiteboard,” Cal says.
I turn around. “There isn’t a whiteboard.”
Cal’s face goes wide and earnest. Lying or truth, doesn’t matter, he’s having the best week of his life. “Not confirming the whiteboard. What I will say is Derek has week three and Diaz has never, and I think Diaz is being pessimistic.”
After dinner somebody finds a football. Not a real game, just tossing it around on the grass between the station and the lot while the light goes gold. Derek overthrows everything. Cal catches everything. Ty throws spirals that look effortless, which is probably why Hanna picked him.
Navarro and Keller argue about whether a lateral counts when you’re standing still, which isn’t a real rule in any version of football, but they commit to it completely. Rivera referees from a lawn chair. Two crews. One station. It’s starting to work.
Ty finds me later, on the tailgate of the engine while the sky goes dark.
“They’re good guys,” he says. Meaning my crew. “Diaz doesn’t talk much, but when he does, the room listens. That’s worth something.”
“He likes your crew,” I say. “Won’t admit it. But he told me your hydrant hookup was—and I’m quoting—acceptable.”
Ty grins. “From Diaz, I’ll take it.”
