Page 7

A pallet of bottled water wobbled as a firefighter hauled a case off the top. I darted forward, steadying the stack. “Thanks, Ms. Hill,” he said, already moving away.

So, they apparently all knew my name. Was it because the captain had helped me? Or had this guy been at the school demonstration? I didn’t recognize him, so it was probably the former rather than the latter. Word traveled in Eagleheart faster than fire, I’d learned. Several people had asked me about my interaction with the chief.

Across the bay, a toddler cried. His mother dug through a diaper bag and came up empty, panic skimming her face. I crossed to my tote and pulled out a small pack of markers and a half-used classroom coloring book. “Could he try this?” I asked, stopping beside her.

The little boy took the book with both hands, turned to a page with a big cartoon dog, and went quiet the moment the marker touched paper. His mother’s eyes filled with grateful tears. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I didn’t bring him a lot to do.”

I made a loop of the bay after that, learning the building by walking it. There was a hallway that led back into the firefighter sleeping rooms and private areas. There were two bathrooms off the main hall, a kitchen with a big steel coffee urn and industrial appliances, a long table piled with blankets and toiletries. It seemed a little hodgepodge.

I found a room near the back where an elderly couple sat with their growling cat zipped into a dark mesh carrier, its yellow eyes bright as coins shining through. The woman wore a cardigan despite the heat of the evening and twisted a handkerchief until it wrung white lines into her fingers.

“Can I get you anything?” I asked. It seemed like someone had parked them in this room and just left them here.

“Do you have… tea?” she said, voice trembling. “I know that’s silly. It’s just what I have at night and my hands want something to do.”

“It’s not silly at all.” I fetched a Styrofoam cup and hot water from the kitchen, found a box of tea bags near the sugar. By the time I returned, the man—her husband, I guessed—was patting the cat carrier in a steady rhythm. I handed her the tea and set a second cup down for him, unsure if he’d want it. He did. He said thank you in a voice that quivered just a little.

“Are you okay in here?” I asked.

The old man nodded. “It’s better for Chess to be away from the people. He’s not especially friendly.”

“Gotcha,” I said, smiling. “If you need anything, just stick your head out or send someone to find me. I’m Cameron.” They nodded, and I closed the door behind myself.

I kept moving. A teenage girl shivered in a tank top that wasn’t made for the commercial AC in the bay; I draped a light fleece blanket around her shoulders and she said nothing, but she didn’t stop me either. Two boys argued over a handheld game, and I traded them a set of Uno cards from my bag for the device, telling them to deal for whoever got to pick the color. A cluster of kids hovered nearby, curious eyes peeking around their parents’ legs. “Want to help me set up a kids’ corner?” I asked. They nodded in chorus.

We dragged two folding tables to a spot under the gym-style scoreboard. I wiped them down with a stack of paper towels, then laid out coloring pages, crayons, the Uno deck, and a battered box of wooden blocks a volunteer found in a closet. One of my students, Liam, poked his head out from behind his dad’s arm and gave me a tentative smile.

“Hi, Ms. Hill,” he said, like we were in the school hallway instead of a firehouse.

“Hey, buddy.” I crouched to his height. “Want to be my block engineer? If anyone needs a tower, you’re in charge.”

He looked at his dad for permission; his dad nodded, and the worry in his face cracked just enough to let pride through. Liam marched to the table and got to work. The two arguing boys drifted over to supervise. The toddler with the markers scribbled a line of circles and announced it was a flower.

A woman arrived carrying a baby on one hip and a grocery bag on the other; she didn’t have a free hand left to drink the water she obviously needed. I set the bag on the table for her, handed her a bottle of water, and asked if she had diapers. She did, but they were the wrong size—she’d grabbed in a hurry. I found a volunteer who thought she had a few in her car, and within minutes, we had a stack that would fit.

People started asking me things in a steady trickle after that—where to put donated blankets, who needed water, if anyone had phone chargers, whether the cat carrier could be set near the door so the cat wouldn’t panic. I didn’t have answers to everything, but I did the best I could. And I organized the best I could. I dragged a piece of cardboard off a water case and used a fat Sharpie to make simple signs: RESTROOMS →, WATER, KIDS’ TABLE, FIREFIGHTERS ONLY!, and QUIET AREA. I taped them at eye level where the crowd would see them without looking up.

It helped. People moved with less confusion. Voices dropped a notch. That was all I wanted: to make the room just a little easier to be in. Control in the madness.

I turned around and found Ben watching me with his ever-present smirk and a case of sports drinks balanced on one shoulder. “Look at you, Ms. Hill,” he said. “Promoted to Assistant Captain of Chaos.”

“I’ll put that on my resume.” I took three bottles off the top and set them on the kids’ table. “Is it okay that I’m doing this?”

“It’s more than okay,” he said. “You’re saving us steps we don’t have time to take.” His grin softened into something like respect. “Chief noticed.”

Heat crept up my neck. I didn’t ask which way he meant it. Ben didn’t clarify.

An older man in a dirty, threadbare shirt shuffled in with a small oxygen tank rolling behind him. He was alone. His hands shook as he lowered himself onto a chair near the door. His lips had the faint purplish cast that made my stomach clench.

“Can I…” I started, then stopped. I wasn’t a nurse. I could hurt more than help.

“Let me,” said a woman in a green polo with a small Red Cross patch. I hadn’t even noticed her come in. She moved to the man, checked his kinked line, nodded to me. “We’re okay for now,” she said quietly. “If you can find an outlet, I’ll top off his battery.”

I led her to an outlet behind the workbench and cleared a space for the charger. She set things up with practiced hands. I stayed close until color warmed the man’s mouth again. “Thank you,” he rasped. He reached for my hand and squeezed it with surprising strength. “My granddaughter’s class loves you. Macy, the little one with dark hair and brown eyes.”

I nodded, knowing the girl well. She was a pleasure. “Tell her Ms. Hill says hi.”

I kept moving because if I stopped, I might cry. Not from fear—though the glow beyond the bay door windows was brighter now as the day faded and night pressed in—but from the way strangers were still themselves inside a crisis. Helpful, funny, stubborn, quick to say thank you. My students would be proud of them. Maybe they’d be proud of me, too.