"I'm staying on dispatch. You take the radio headset." Her tone makes it clear this isn't a suggestion. "I'll guide you through, monitor conditions, and keep the line open to him."
"Copy that," I say quietly.
I move with efficiency, gathering my turnout gear from the hooks by the bay door. The heavy coat settles on my shoulders like armor, the familiar weight both comforting and constraining.
I check the reserve truck's systems, confirming fuel levels and emergency equipment while Denise's voice continues in the background, calm and steady as she speaks to the stranded teen.
"Joey, this is Denise at Whitetail Falls Station. We have Engineer Wood heading to your location now. I need you to stay on the line with me, okay? Conserve your fuel. Turn the heat on for five minutes every ten minutes to maintain temperature."
I slide into the driver's seat, adjusting the headset over my ears. Her voice transfers seamlessly from room speaker to my ear—intimate, immediate, a direct line between us.
"Whitetail Reserve to Dispatch, radio check," I say, starting the engine.
"Copy, Reserve. I have you clear." Denise's voice in my ear sounds different somehow—closer, more personal. "Joey reports his location as just past the Emberstone ridge turnout, red sedan with hazards on. Current temp at the ridge is twenty-four degrees, dropping. Wind gusting to thirty miles per hour with sustained snowfall."
"Copy that. Heading out now."
I engage the lights but leave the siren off, no need to announce my passage through empty streets. The bay door rises with mechanical slowness, revealing a world transformed by ice and darkness. Snow swirls in the headlights, thick and disorienting. I ease the truck forward, tires crunching over frozen slush.
The streets of Whitetail Falls lie empty and white, storefronts dark, streetlamps creating pools of amber in the storm.
I drive with caution, my hands steady on the wheel despite the truck's tendency to slide on hidden patches of ice. Through my headset, I hear Denise maintaining contact with the stranded teen, her tone reassuring.
"Joey, Engineer Wood is on his way. Are you staying warm enough? Good. Do you have any water with you?"
The outskirts of town give way to winding forest roads, narrower and more treacherous. The truck's headlights push feebly against the darkness, illuminating only a short distance ahead where snow falls in hypnotic patterns. The heater blasts against the windshield, fighting a constant battle against encroaching frost.
"Approaching county line," I report. "Visibility poor. Road conditions deteriorating."
"Copy that." Denise's voice steadies me. "County reports the lower access to Emberstone is completely iced over. You'll need to take the service road approach from the west side."
"Copy. West access."
I adjust my route, following her guidance with implicit trust. The road narrows further, pine trees crowding close, their branches heavy with snow. The incline increases as I begin the ascent up Emberstone Hill, the truck's engine straining against gravity and ice.
"Joey reports his car battery is starting to weaken," Denise says, a new tension entering her voice. "Hazard lights dimming. He's trying to conserve power."
"Tell him to flash his headlights when he sees my approach," I respond. "I'm about five minutes out if conditions hold."
The service road curves sharply upward, barely wide enough for the truck. I downshift, feeling the tires struggle for purchase on the slick surface. A gust of wind rocks the vehicle, momentarily pushing it toward the edge where a steep drop waits beyond a flimsy guardrail.
"Careful on the next curve," Denise warns. "There's a washout on the outer edge from last week's rain."
I wonder briefly how she knows this, whether it's from dispatch reports or personal knowledge, but there's no time to ask. The curve approaches, and I navigate it with methodical care, grateful for her warning when I spot the eroded shoulder, now hidden under snow.
"You're doing great," she says softly, almost too quiet to hear over the engine's strain. "Joey can see your lights approaching."
Her voice has become my navigation system, not just relaying information but connecting me to purpose. To her.
The road levels slightly as I reach the ridge. Through swirling snow, I catch the dim flash of barely visible hazard lights, a distant red pulse in the whiteness.
"I have visual," I report. "About fifty yards ahead."
"Joey says his driver's side door is jammed against a snowbank," Denise relays. "The passenger side should be accessible."
I pull the truck as close as safely possible, angling the headlights to illuminate the half-buried car. Snow has drifted against the vehicle's side, nearly covering the windows. The hazard lights pulse weakly, battery clearly failing.
"I'm going out," I say, reaching for my gloves. "Maintaining radio contact."
