The walk to the generator bay requires navigating the narrow back corridor. I move with the certainty of muscle memory, aware of Denise following close behind. The storm grows louder as we approach the bay doors.
I push through the heavy door to the generator room, holding it open for her. The space is dominated by the massive diesel generator, its steady pulse filling the air with vibration and the acrid scent of hot metal.
"Impressive," Denise says, her breath fogging slightly in the cooler air. "Louder than I expected."
"Wait till it really gets going." I move to the control panel, scanning gauges and indicator lights with practiced efficiency. "This is just idle. Full load sounds like a freight train."
I pull a clipboard from its hook on the wall, checking off the first set of diagnostics. Everything is normal so far. Fuel levels optimal. Oil pressure steady. No warning indicators. The routine is calming, familiar, the kind of systematic process that has always centered me.
"How can I help?" Denise asks, moving closer to peer at the gauges. Her shoulder nearly touches mine, and I find my focus shifting, divided between the task and her proximity.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." She raises an eyebrow, challenging. "Unless you think dispatchers can't handle a little machinery?"
The corner of my mouth twitches. "Wouldn't dream of suggesting it."
I hand her the clipboard, directing her attention to the checklist while I move to examine the secondary circuits. We work in companionable silence for several minutes—me testing connections and voltage outputs, her recording readings and status indicators.
"You're good at this," I observe, watching her confidently mark the fuel consumption rate.
"Numbers and systems are universal." She shrugs. "Whether it's routing emergency calls or monitoring a generator, it's all about patterns and flow."
"Flow," I repeat, testing the word. "That's it exactly."
"How long have you been here?" Denise asks, leaning against the workbench. "At the station, I mean."
"Four years, two months." I adjust a loose connection, tightening it with precise quarter turns. "After eight years in the Army."
"Let me guess—engineer there too?"
"Communications specialist, actually." I stand, wiping my hands on a shop rag. "Signal Corps. Kept the radios running, networks secure. Different equipment, same principles."
Lightning flashes through the high windows, momentarily transforming the space. In that fraction of a second, I catch her curious expression.
"So you've always been the voice keeping everyone connected," she says.
"Never thought of it that way."
"Trust me, as a dispatcher, I get it. Being the bridge between chaos and order." She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Though sometimes the chaos wins."
I pause in my work, sensing the weight behind her words. "Is that why you left Seattle?"
Denise's fingers tighten slightly around the clipboard. "That obvious, huh?"
"Just familiar." I move to check the fuel line, giving her space. "Most people don't leave big city emergency services for a town where the biggest daily crisis is a cat up a tree."
"Don't forget the profanity-spewing parrot." Her laugh is soft, private. "But yeah. Seattle Emergency Dispatch was... a lot.Twelve-hour shifts, constant calls, never enough staff. You start dreaming in radio codes and sirens."
I nod, understanding completely. The bone-deep exhaustion of constant vigilance. The way emergency work reshapes your nervous system until calm feels foreign, suspicious.
"After my last tour," I say, surprising myself with the disclosure, "I couldn't sleep without noise. Kept a radio on all night. Silence meant something had gone wrong."
The confession hangs between us. I rarely speak about that time—the disorientation of civilian life, the search for purpose that led me to firefighting. But something about Denise's attention makes the words come easier.
"I get that," she says finally. "For me, it was the opposite. Too much noise, all the time. Phones ringing, radios crackling, people shouting. I started fantasizing about silence like other people dream of beach vacations."
A particularly violent gust of wind rattles the bay doors, sending a cold draft swirling around our ankles. Denise shivers visibly.
