Then I hear the sound of an empty cardboard cup hitting the floor and my daughter half-crying half-wailing. It’s the sound she makes since she can’t say,I want to get out of this stupid chair, Mom.
“I better get to that door,” Jack quickly says, turning and heading toward the front of the house at the same time I say, “Sorry!”
I pick up Evee, holding her in my arms, reality settling back in.
CHAPTER 17
JACK
A sharp,piercing tone blares through the station's speakers, jolting me awake.
I dozed off reading the last few chapters of the book I picked up on my first shift back two days ago. The paperback flies to the ground from where it was laying on my chest, my body jackknifing up at the alert.
All around me, an urgent yet controlled chaos erupts—boots thumping against the hardwood of the stations living quarters; all the guys making their way downstairs where we keep our gear in the garage as a computerized voice rapidly dispatches the unit number, location, and type of emergency we’re heading into.
Please be a routine call. Please be a routine call.
I close my eyes, waiting for the voice to repeat the type of emergency as I stand up from the lounge chair, following the nine other guys downstairs, my book and reading glasses forgotten on the floor behind me.
“Attention Engine 12, Tanker 4, Ladder 3 – respond to a structure fire, possible barn fully involved. Address: 4597 County Road 12. Caller reports visible flames and livestock on site. Time out: 03:17.”
My vision goes blurry, and it takes everything in me to make it down the last three stairs, tripping over my own feet as I step onto the concrete floor of the garage, the rest of the crew in different stages of suiting up.
Muscle memory and adrenaline take over, my body taking me to my locker. Opening the metal door, my gear stares back at me—gear I haven’t put on in over 18 months, not since the night my best friend was suiting up next to me.
The night he died.
I got through my first shift earlier this week without an emergency call involving a fire, but my luck seems to have run out.
I look to my left where Bennett’s locker is—was—and I can’t fight the urge to open it, wishing to find a piece of him where it’s supposed to be.
“Get going, Hasting!” someone yells, but I don’t turn around to see who.
I open Bennett’s locker, finding it empty.
No gear, no helmet, no picture of him, Luke, and their older brother, Caleb, taped to the inside, no stash of gummy bears that he hid in there because he said someone at the station was stealing them.
Empty.
“What’s wrong, Hasting? Why aren’t you in your gear?” Anderson comes into view, his brown eyes give me something to focus on, my vision clearing, but I can barely hear him over the pounding in my ears and the sound of the engine of the fire truck turning over.
I shake my head. “I’m going. Just give me a fucking second.”
Anderson puts a hand on my shoulder, and it takes everything in me not to shove it off. “We keep it empty, as a sign of respect.”
He doesn’t have to say more. His words are enough.
I blow out a breath as Anderson gives me a nod before he puts his helmet on and turns to head toward the truck.
I let muscle memory take over again, closing Bennett’s locker and facing mine, gearing up like I’ve done hundreds of times before, but the first time since being back.
Kicking off my station boots, I step into my turnout boots already settled in my bunker pants, yanking them on and settling the band on my waist. I snap the suspenders into place, throwing my jacket over my station T-shirt. I grab my helmet and gloves from the top shelf before closing my locker and turning to follow the rest of the crew to the truck.
Lights and sirens blaring, we speed toward the scene. The wind coming through the window is cool against my skin as I scan the streets, watching as the city lights fade and get replaced by open fields. The heat from the truck’s interior mixes with the rising tension in my chest, every bump in the road a reminder of the potential danger that lies ahead.
The rest of the crew prepares, focused and silent, their faces set with resolve as we listen for any updates over the truck’s radio and listen to any orders from our station’s Fire Lieutenant.
As the truck approaches the scene, I can see a bright orange blaze in the distance, getting larger and larger as we get closer. The faint smell of smoke hits me softly at first, and then it punches through me. I feel my chest tighten, and my palms are slick beneath my gloves.
