This neighborhood is nice, perfect for couples or small families, and it’s reassuring to know these houses are owned by a company that cares for their tenants safety.
People are often surprised when we show up to walk through their apartment or rental house, checklist in hand instead of a hose, and in our station wear rather than full-on fire gear. We often have to explain that nothing is wrong, and we’re just here for a fire inspection, requested by the leasing office or property management.
These walkthroughs aren’t always what people expect. We’re not there to hand out a fine or tear the place apart. We’re looking for basic safety stuff—working smoke alarms, clear exits, functioning carbon monoxide detectors, and fire extinguishers on each level of the house. As part of our community’s safety program, firefighters are the ones making the rounds, rather than fire inspectors or marshals.
And the goal’s simple: make sure the place you live isn’t a fucking trap if something goes wrong. I’ve seen what happens when it is, and a five-minute check can save lives.
I shake the thoughts away, not wanting my mind to go to that dark place, but they come at me faster than I can will them away.
I’ve spent months wondering if one of these five-minute checks could have prevented the fire that killed Bennett. I can’t count how many times I wished I could find out who did the fire inspections in that house, if it was done right.
If it was done at all.
I feel the rush of anger overwhelm me as I think about how preventable a house fire is.
After the smoke clears and the sirens fade, people always ask if there was anything they could’ve done. And the hard truth is—yeah, a lot of the time, there fuckingwas. Most house fires start from things wecancontrol: candles burning near curtains, faulty appliances, bad wiring that’s been ignored for years, lint buildup in a dryer, fireplaces left unattended, grills too close to the house.
Or in the case of the fire that killed Bennett, a space heater that was too close to a blanket.
And if the idiot hadn’t gone back in—against better judgement, against orders, if he would’ve waited one minute—he would’ve seen there was nothing to go back in for.
That the daughter got out.
That she wasn’t still inside of the house.
“Jack?” I flinch at the voice that is only mere inches from my face, and it takes all my willpower not to deck Anderson in the jaw. I didn’t realize he rounded the truck and came up next to me.
“What?” I snap.
“I said,” he starts, carefully, putting his hands up in surrender as he takes a few steps back, “let’s start over here.” He points to the duplex he parked the truck in front of, a gray sedan sitting on one side of the driveway, the other side empty. It looks like each house is split into two living units, each with its own garage and a shared driveway.
I exhale as we start walking toward the front door. It takes a moment to register, but as we get closer to the door, a faint scent of smoke hits me. I don’t have time to question it because the sound of a fire alarm begins blaring loud enough to hear even through the house’s closed windows.
I try to take another step, but my feet feel glued to the spot on the sidewalk and my body threatens to freeze. Instinct wantsto take over, go toward the smoke and extinguish it, but it’s overridden by something stronger.
Fear.
It’s like I’m on the side of the road hearing the ambulance all over again, seconds away from being thrown back into the worst moment of my life. The edges of my vision begin to blur, and my legs shake as if they are about to buckle.
No.
This can’t be happening. Not again.
“Damn it,” Anderson mutters before breaking into a sprint toward the house, banging on the door. “Northshore Fire Department!” he yells. Through the windows, it’s evident there are no visible flames. I try to tell myself that, but my body won’t listen. I’m still stuck in place.
I close my eyes.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
What is it that we’re supposed to tell people when they’re experiencing a trauma-response? I wrack my mind for something to make this weight in my chest subside.
Then, I hear a scream, and it brings me right out of the panic attack that I know is seconds away from taking over me.
Dropping my clipboard, I sprint toward the door Anderson is still pounding on, but I don’t hesitate. “Back up,” I yell at him, and, to his credit, he does instantly.
Aiming just above the doorknob, I drive my heel into the door with a sharp, controlled stomp—once, then again, until the frame gives with a crack and the door flies inward. The air inside rushes out hot and thick, smoke blurring our vision as I enter the house, the fire alarm blaring even louder now that we’re closer to it.
