Bradley moves with practiced efficiency, powering up systems, checking connections. I slip into the dispatch chair naturally, fingers finding the right switches and dials without conscious thought. For a moment, we work in perfect silence, nothing but the storm and the soft electronic hum of equipment between us.
"Systems green," he says, eyes on the generator readout. "Backup power holding steady. We're good for at least forty-eight hours if needed."
"Radio frequencies clear," I confirm. "I've got county emergency services on channel two, local dispatch on three, and weather alerts on four." My hands move across the console, muscle memory taking over. "What's our protocol here?"
"You run dispatch, I'll handle logistics and structural monitoring." He pulls up a chair beside me, close enough that I can feel the faint heat of him, not so close that we touch. "Any calls about flooding or structural damage get priority, followed by medical emergencies, then general assistance."
Another flash of lightning, another growl of thunder. The rain sounds like it's trying to drill through the roof.
"Whitetail Falls Station, this is Chief Hawkins. Do you copy?"
I activate the mic. "Copy, Chief. Cole and Wood standing by."
"We've got water coming down from the ridge faster than expected. Highway 16 is underwater at the Whitetail Bridge crossing. Nathan and I are diverting traffic at the interchange. Need you to monitor county band for incoming reports and coordinate with emergency services. We're stretched thin out here."
Bradley leans toward the mic, his shoulder brushing mine. "Copy that, Chief. What's your status on the north end flooding?"
"Austin and Logan are there with rescue equipment. Three houses have been evacuated so far. Water's still rising."
As if on cue, another call comes in on the county band. I switch frequencies smoothly, taking the report of downed power lines on Emberstone Road, then another about a car trapped in rising water near the old mill. The familiar rhythm of emergency response takes over—gathering information, assigning priorities, coordinating resources.
Bradley stays beside me, occasionally speaking into his own radio to direct the crew or request updates. His presence is steady, grounding. I've worked with a dozen different incident commanders over the years, but never one who radiates such calm certainty.
The next hour passes in a blur of calls and responses. The storm peaks, unleashing its full fury on Whitetail Falls. Through the radio, I hear the strain in the voices of first responders battling wind and water.
"Downed tree at Pine Hollow Road," I relay, switching between channels. "Fire crew from County Station Four responding."
Bradley marks it on the digital map with a few keystrokes. "Power line damage likely. I'll alert the utility crew." His fingers move across the keyboard without hesitation, his focus absolute.
In the glow of the monitors, I catch sight of something I hadn't noticed before—a tattoo on his forearm, partially visible where he's rolled up his sleeve. A military insignia, faded but distinct.
The next call comes directly to my headset, an elderly woman trapped in her home by rising water. I relay the information to the rescue team, then glance at Bradley.
"The Douglas place is two miles out, and Logan reports the main road is impassable."
Without missing a beat, he pulls up satellite imagery, fingers tracing an alternative route. "There's a service road through the old Larson property. It's higher ground, should still be clear."
I relay the suggestion, and minutes later, Logan confirms they've reached the house. One more crisis managed.
Gradually, the tempo of calls slows. The storm doesn't weaken, but the immediate emergencies stabilize. Reports come in of roads cleared, people sheltered, the worst dangers contained. Bradley steps away to check the generator, and I take the moment to stretch, rolling my shoulders against the familiar tension that comes from hunching over a console.
When he returns, he's carrying two steaming mugs. "Thought you could use this."
The coffee is strong and sweet.
"Thanks." I wrap my hands around the warmth. "Any issues with the generator?"
"Running smooth. We're good." He settles back into his chair, his own mug cradled between his palms. In the brief silence that follows, I can hear the storm still raging, but it feels more distant now, less immediate.
"You're good at this," he says after a moment.
"So are you." I take a sip, watching him over the rim. "Military training helps with emergency response, I imagine."
He doesn't answer immediately, and I worry I've overstepped. But then he nods, a small acknowledgment.
"When I first got out," he says quietly, "the hardest part wasn't the adjustment to civilian life. It was the silence. No constant radio chatter, no immediate purpose, no team depending on your signal staying clear." His fingers trace the edge of his mug. "You spend years being essential, and then suddenly..."
"You're just another person," I finish for him, understanding completely. "The world keeps spinning without you."
