Val is at her desk every morning at five-thirty since Thursday. Val's truck is in the chief's space. Val's office light is on at five-thirty. Val's blinds are open. Val's coffee mug with the white glaze and the chip on the handle is on her desk. Val has not called me into the office since Thursday. Val has not said my name since Thursday night when she told me to go home.
Val has not been sympathetic.
Val has not been not-sympathetic either.
Val has been the chief, and the chief has been at her desk, and the chief has not put a hand on my shoulder in the bay kitchen, and the chief has not come down to the line at oh-six-thirty to watch the standpipe drill, and the chief has not asked me how I am sleeping, and the chief has not asked me if I have heard from her, and the chief knows I have not heard from her because the chief is the one who sent her away.
Val has not given me an address.
Val has not given me a city.
Val has not given me a phone number.
I asked her once and Val said,No, Hale, and Val walked out of the bay kitchen.
No, Hale.
It is a sentence. It is a chief's sentence. It is a sentence that meansnot from me, andnot now, andnot until I say, andnot unless I say.
I drink the coffee.
The coffee is paste.
I put the cup on the counter.
I look at the radio on the wall.
The radio on the wall clicks once.
---
The radio saysStation Nine, Engine, Truck, Battalion, structure fire, 1411 East Industry Road, large warehouse, smoke from the roof.
Doyle is up. The four rookies are up. The boots go on the line. I grab my turnout gear. The bay door opens. The engine comes alive at the second turn of the key.
I am in the truck before I have decided to be in the truck.
I am in the right-hand seat with my coat on and my helmet on the bench beside me and my SCBA on my back, and the truck is rolling out of the bay at six-oh-four with the lights on, and the cold air is in the cab, and the highway is grey, and Doyle is at the wheel, and the four rookies are in the back, and the radio is going, and I am the lieutenant on this truck, and I am at this address in eight minutes.
Eight minutes.
I count the mile markers between the station and the on-ramp.
I count the lights at the on-ramp.
I count the breath at the back of my throat in fours.
I do not count anything else.
The address is 1411 East Industry Road. I know the address. The address is on the east industrial spur off the county road.
"Doyle."
"Lieutenant."
"What is the building?”
"Industrial. Records storage. One of Clark's."
