Mish looks at me.
Not suspicious.
Just attentive.
“Everything all right?” she asks.
“Yes.”
The answer comes too quickly.
AJ’s mouth does something dangerously close to amusement.
I give him a look that would usually make grown firefighters remember urgent tasks elsewhere.
He looks down into his coffee.
Good.
Mostly good.
Kev gathers his toast and mug. “Final night for babyface.”
“Don’t sound emotional,” AJ says.
“You’ll miss us.”
“I’ve already begun processing the grief.”
Dan pushes away from the counter. “You’ll miss the biscuits.”
“That too.”
I head towards the briefing room before this conversation can become any more ordinary.
Once the meeting starts, I stand at the front and do my job.
That part comes easier.
Thank God.
Weather. Road conditions. Control updates. Appliance availability. Notes from days. A reminder about the lower lanes after the rain. Possible nuisance calls if the forecast turns ugly again. Final night of AJ’s placement, which I mention because it is relevant and not because the words feel like grit in my mouth.
“Same as before,” I say, looking at the room rather than at him specifically. “If we’re called out, you follow instructions immediately. No drifting, no getting curious, no assuming quiet means safe.”
AJ nods. “Understood.”
His voice is professional.
Mine is professional.
The room is professional.
I hate all of us.
Kev raises a hand.
“No,” I say.
