AJ turns his head. “A set?”
“BA,” Mish says.
“Breathing apparatus,” I add.
His gaze shifts to the equipment near the bay doors. Cylinder, harness, mask, gauges. The expression on his face changes in small, satisfying stages.
Interest.
Concern.
Regret.
“That looks heavier,” he says.
“It is.”
“Good to establish.”
Kev shrugs. “Jacket’s only the beginning.”
He’s right. I had planned to leave BA until later, but this is supposed to teach AJ something beyond the fact that firefighters own heavy coats. If he’s going to spend two weeks here and then put words in front of readers, he needs at least a basic sense of what the equipment asks of your body before the emergency even begins.
Besides, he is coping better than expected.
That means I can give him a little more.
“All right,” I say. “We’ll fit you for a set.”
AJ looks back at me. “Now?”
“You said endurance was your thing.”
“I said mountain running was my thing.”
“And I said it wouldn’t help.”
“Yes, I’m starting to feel there may have been foreshadowing.”
“It’s only foreshadowing if you ignore the warning.”
Mish laughs under her breath.
I nod towards the bay. “Come on. Familiarisation only. You’re not doing anything live today, and you’re not going anywhere without one of us beside you.”
He follows me back across the yard. His walk has changed already: less neat, more aware of the kit. Good. That is part of it. The moment people stop treating PPE like costume and start feeling it as equipment, they begin to understand the job differently.
We stop beside the BA sets.
AJ studies one with the careful expression of a man reading a menu in a language he only partly understands.
“This,” I say, touching the shoulder strap, “is the breathing apparatus set. Cylinder, backplate, harness, mask, lines, gauges. We’ll go through all of it properly before you get to use it for real. Today is about fit, weight and familiarity.”
“Right.”
“You tell me immediately if you feel dizzy, panicky, short of breath, or if something doesn’t feel right.”
“I will.”
