Chapter 1 – Denise
The storm rolls in with a voice all its own, like a low growl beneath the static in my headset. I adjust the volume, watching the radar bloom red and angry across my monitor.
"Engine 12 to Dispatch, we've got the situation contained. Small brush fire by the Edwards place. No structural damage."
"Copy that, Engine 12. Need any additional resources?" I keep my voice steady, professional.
"Negative, Dispatch. Just some damp leaves getting frisky with a power line. Nothing we can't handle."
"Ten-four. Be advised we're tracking a significant weather system moving in from the northwest. Expect heavy precipitation within the hour."
Through my headset comes the background noise of men working: boots on wet ground, the hiss of dying embers, equipment being stowed. This is the soundtrack to my days now, the rhythmic chaos of the Fire Department doing what they do best while I stay dry and detached behind my console.
"Dispatch, this is Wood. We're wrapping up now. ETA back to station approximately fifteen."
My fingers pause over the keyboard. Just for a breath. Just long enough to register the strange stillness his deep voice creates, like the moment before rainfall when birds go quiet.
"Copy that, Engineer Wood. Drive safe coming down that ridge. Road conditions deteriorating rapidly."
"Always do, Dispatch." There's the slightest pause. "Appreciate the heads-up."
Just four words, nothing special about them. Yet I find myself smiling at my monitor, like an idiot. Like some teenager fluttering over a voice on the radio.
I switch to the weather band, listening to the automated warnings. This storm is moving faster than predicted, a proper November tantrum barreling down from the mountains. My shift ends in twenty minutes, just enough time to gather my things and beat the worst of it home.
Home. A one-bedroom cottage I've barely decorated in the three months since I fled Seattle.
Except that's not where I'm headed, not immediately. I have those backup batteries Chief Hawkins requested and the updated call protocols that can't wait until after the holiday weekend. The Station is on my way home, technically. It would be irresponsible not to drop them off.
That's what I tell myself as I grab my raincoat and the supply bag, nodding goodnight to Ramirez as he takes over the console. The lie sits uncomfortably under my ribs.
Why am I suddenly so eager to put faces to voices?
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Ramirez says with a smirk.
"That leaves my options pretty wide open, doesn't it?" I shoot back, feeling my cheeks warm despite myself. Ramirez knows nothing—there's nothing to know—but my reaction betrays me anyway.
Outside, wind whips my hair across my face as I dash to my car, the first fat raindrops already beginning their assault. The batteries rattle in my bag like tiny warning bells.
I could turn around. I could mail the damn batteries.
Instead, I drive toward the glow of the station, its red brick walls and gleaming bay doors a beacon against the darkening sky. My windshield wipers work furiously against the downpour, and through the glass, I catch glimpses of Whitetail Falls transforming, golden leaves plastered against slick pavement like fallen stars. The town hunkers down, tucking in, while I drive toward... what, exactly?
A professional courtesy. That's all.
Nothing to do with a voice that sounds like shelter in a storm.
I slip through the side entrance of the station, shaking rain from my coat. The smell hits me immediately: coffee and cinnamon, diesel fuel and damp wool, the phantom trace of smoke that never quite leaves a firefighter's gear.
The contrast to my sterile dispatch center is jarring. There, everything beeps and hums in electronic precision. Here, even the air feels alive, warm and textured with human presence.
Someone's left boots by the heater, steam rising gently from the leather. A clock ticks above a bulletin board plastered with schedules and photographs. I hear laughter echoing from deeper inside, the metallic clink of tools, a radio playing something with guitars and heartbreak.
I've been dispatching for the crew for three months now, but this is only my second time inside the station itself. The first was my orientation, when Chief Hawkins showed me around with gruff efficiency before depositing me at the dispatch center two miles away. Now, without his looming presence, I notice details I missed: the worn leather couch with a paperback splayed open, the row of mismatched mugs hanging beside the industrial coffee maker, a dartboard with what looks like a parking ticket at its center.
"Well, look what the storm dragged in!"
I turn to find a young firefighter grinning at me from the doorway to the kitchen. Behind him, I can see movement, hear the clatter of dishes and voices raised in good-natured argument.
