I grip my helmet hard enough to hear the plastic protest as the truck comes to a stop, the crew all filing out without a hint of hesitation, as if they don’t care what they’re running straight into—doing exactly what we were trained to do.
Once again, my body takes over, falling in line with the rest of my crew. I hop out of the truck, ready to listen to our Fire Lieutenant give the orders.
Putting my helmet on, I try to focus on his raised voice, but once I see the barn, I can’t tear my eyes away. The structure is consumed by a towering inferno, flames licking the sky as thick black smoke billows out, darkening the horizon. The wood crackles and groans under the heat, and it’s seconds away from collapsing.
No.Bennett’s in there.
If that roof collapses, he’s dead.
Someone has to get him out of there.
Ihave to get him out of there.
But I can’t.
My feet won’t move.
Even as the rest of the crew begin working in tandem on their assigned roles—assessing the situation by identifying hazards, determining the fire’s origin and size, evaluating any potential risks to people, property, or the environment, gathering the necessary equipment—I’m stuck.
Frozen in place.
Left to watch as my best friend gets killed by the very thing we are trained to fight.
“Hasting!” Someone calls my name, but the ringing in my ears is too loud. I watch as the roof of the barn crashes to the ground, flames expanding and shooting up in the dark sky, but I can’t even scream.
It feels like every bone—every muscle—in my body has turned to ice despite the sweat coating my skin.
It feels like the slightest touch will shatter me.
My chest rises and falls in quick successions, my lungs feeling like they could explode at any moment from the lack of oxygen and the heavy smoke.
“Hasting!” I think I hear my name again, but I can’t be sure. It sounds like Anderson, but it could be someone else.
I watch as they bring over the hoses, the water drowning the fire, and, in a matter of minutes, it’s like it was never there—the orange hue disappearing, leaving us all with only the lights from the truck and the stars overhead.
I don’t know how long I stand there, and I don’t know how I make it back to the truck.
It isn’t until I’m standing in the station’s garage, alone and still in my gear, that I fall to my knees.
At some point, I make it back to the station’s living quarters, finding my forgotten paperback and reading glasses put on the side table, someone having picked them up from the floor.
The station was quiet when I finally made it up there, the crew thankfully letting me do it on my own, leaving me to wallow in my own self-pity and embarrassment of what the fuck I let happen to myself tonight.
I don’t think I slept more than an hour, and I can feel the lack of sleep in every inch of my body during the shift change briefing, barely being able to stand without feeling my eyes droop close and my body swaying to the side.
After last night, the last thing I want to do is linger around the station.
What I need right now is to grab my shit, hit the gym and tire myself out even more, so I can sleep hard enough to avoid the nightmares.
I’m almost to my truck, when I hear my last name being shouted behind me.
The sense of deja vu hits me instantly, along with the realization that I forgot I was supposed to meet the chief in his office after this morning’s briefing.
“Hasting!” Chief Sanders shouts again, and I let my head fall back, my eyes closing. Annoyance floods through me, my irritation seconds away from boiling into anger.
I turn and find the chief only a few steps behind me.
“We need to talk,” he says curtly when he closes the distance between us.
