“What?”
Her expression doesn’t change. “You’ve already read it six times.”
“Seven.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Sorry. Seven. That changes everything.”
I pull the paper back anyway.
Outside the kitchen window, my nephew Jamie is standing beside the appliance in a child-sized fire helmet and talking very seriously to Kev. Jamie is five and has all the confidence of someone who has never once had to consider whether he might be wrong.
Kev is crouched down listening attentively.
I can’t hear the conversation through the glass but I’d bet good money Jamie is explaining how fire engines work.
Incorrectly.
My niece Samantha, who is three and therefore largely operates outside accepted societal structures, is walking around the bay carrying a clipboard someone has irresponsibly given her. Every few seconds she points at something and one of the firefighters moves it.
Amanda follows my gaze and smiles.
“They love coming here.”
That much is true.
The crew loves them too.
Officially, children aren’t encouraged to roam around operational areas. Unofficially, everybody here has collectively decided Jamie and Samantha are community engagement.
Jamie has been obsessed with fire engines since he learned the word emergency.
Samantha mostly enjoys giving instructions.
She fits in alarmingly well.
Amanda wraps both hands around her tea.
“I’m serious, Pip.”
I look back at her.
She nods at the article.
“Stop reading it.”
I sigh and lean back in my chair.
The kitchen smells faintly of toast and industrial-strength coffee. Someone has left a half-finished crossword on the side. There’s a whiteboard near the fridge listing appliance checks and somebody has drawn a smiley face next to hose testing.
Normal.
Completely normal.
Which is probably why this article annoys me so much.
I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours trying to work out whether I’m overreacting.
I hate not knowing.
