Spike.
“Maverick.”
I shake him off.
“No.”
Foster steps past us.
At first, I barely notice him.
Then I see his face.
He’s staring at the house like he’s reading it.
Smoke.
Windows.
Roofline.
Flame pattern.
Wind.
He’s not looking at fire.
He’s looking at a map.
“Where’s her room?” Foster asks calmly.
Amelia sobs, barely able to answer. “Upstairs. Pink curtains. Second door on the left. But she was in the living room when I left.”
“Kids always go to their comfort zone when scared,” he says distractedly. “She’s probably under her bed.”
Foster takes a long look.
Then he moves.
Fast.
He runs to the nearest fire truck and yanks open a compartment.
“Hey!” one of the firefighters shouts.
Foster ignores him as he grabs item after item and pulls them on with brutal speed. Pants and boots first, coat next,helmet. His hands know where everything goes. No hesitation. No wasted motion.
A firefighter reaches for him. “You can’t just—”
“I’m certified,” Foster snaps. “Former Phoenix Fire. Interior search and rescue. Get me a tank.”
The man hesitates.
Foster gets in his face. “There’s a child inside. Get me a damn tank.”
That does it.
Another firefighter moves.
