Pippa turns towards me fully now, shoulder against the wall.
“And now?”
“I keep thinking about what the article should be. Not the redemption tour of Anthony John Hodgson.”
“That title needs work.”
“Definitely too many syllables.”
“Very pompous.”
“Cruel but accurate.”
Her mouth curves again.
Small.
Real.
I cling to it more than is sensible.
“I think,” I say slowly, “I want to write about what people don’t see. Not the flames. Not the big dramatic photograph. The waiting. The checking. The tea. The way everyone knows when to talk and when not to. The fact that getting someone out is not always the same as saving them, and people still have to get ready for the next call.”
Pippa looks away.
For a moment, I think I have said too much.
Then she says, “That would be worth writing.”
The words hit me with embarrassing force.
I have had editors praise my copy. Readers comment. Colleagues tell me something was strong, sharp, well timed.
None of it has felt like this.
“Thank you,” I say.
She shrugs. “Don’t make me regret it.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I know.”
The way she says it is quiet.
Certain.
It makes me want to be the sort of man she thinks might manage it.
17
Chapter 16
Pippa
By the end ofthe third night shift, AJ looks like a man who has discovered time is a lie.
He is sitting at the kitchen table with both hands wrapped around a mug of tea, hair sticking up on one side, eyes slightly unfocused, expression caught somewhere between determination and spiritual surrender.
