Page 23 of Burn Protocol

“Why would I be disappointed when nobody dies? That should be rewarding enough.”

But the silence that follows after that tells me that it isn’t— at least not on all days. I don’t dare to press any further, though. The lieutenant seems to relax a bit after that and searches my face briefly before flicking her gaze to the screen.

“Didn’t Camilla die?”

Rosa nods intently. “This is her long-lost twin sister, Adriana.”

Elena rolls her eyes and then winks at me. I can’t help but chuckle, and just like that, the cantina feels a lot lighter again.

***

When I arrive at the station on Thursday morning, Elena is waiting for me at the door. She is wearing pressed navy-blue pants with a fitted uniform shirt that I haven’t seen before. It has her last name and badge on it, with the insignia of the bombers over her heart. Her hair is drawn back in that tight bun, making her jawline look razor-sharp against the crisp white collar. I bite my lip before I can stop myself. Wait, did her pupils just dilate?

“What’s… going on?” I say breathily, gesturing at her uniform and praying that she doesn’t see the flush on my cheeks.

“A school visit.”

Her reply is short and firm. She tilts her chin toward one of the station vehicles parked alongside the building, and strides over to it. I feel my stomach turn and my throat clench up. She definitely noticed. I close my eyes and squeeze them tightly for a moment before I turn on my heels to follow her. By the time I slide into the passenger seat, she has already slipped on her seatbelt and is ready to go.

The ride to the school is quiet, almost cold. I carefully glance at Elena a few times, but her eyes are glued to the road. The way her jaw is set tells me that now is not the best time to press her for more. Shit. I’ve been shadowing her for nearly two weeks. After our coffee, most of that has been pleasant, but I still seem to get under her skin for some reason. Should I not have asked her what was going on? Wait… was I supposed to know about this visit?

I keep my eyes on the road while I go over my presentation in my head. My hands grip the steering wheel so hard that my knuckles turn white. It will be over soon. If I just get through the first few lines, it will be okay. You are a goddamn firefighter, Gonzales. You should be able to talk to a bunch of nine-year-olds. I silently curse myself. Why is it easier to run into burning buildings than it is to speak to groups?

The school rises in front of us. Its rigid square shape is a stark contrast against the buildings around it. I park the car near the entrance, hop out without saying a word, and grab the presentation kit from the trunk. Maya follows me quietly. Fuck. I should have told her about the anxiety. I muster a weak smile and open the door for her. She returns a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

The kids squeal loudly before the teacher is even able to introduce us. Or rather, me. Maya disappears to one of the rows in the back.

She would excel at this. Her energy, her bubbly personality, the way she speaks—the kids would eat it up. But instead, it’s me. Me, the woman who is stiff and hates speeches, with about sixteen pairs of eyes staring expectantly at me. I inhale shakily and squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. My muscles tremble.

When I open my eyes, I search for Maya. She is frowning at me, but inclines her head as her gaze meets mine. A relief spreads through my chest. I can breathe.

“Good morning, cariños. I am Elena, and I am a firefighter.” My voice sounds far steadier than I feel.

“Good morning, señora Elena,” the kids reply dutifully.

I see them shift eagerly in their chairs. Not just the boys, the girls too. I know some of them might not have seen a female firefighter before. But after today both boys and girls will know that they can become whatever they want to be. I get to be a part of that. A grin spreads across my face. All the fear I had a few breaths ago melts away.

“Alright, come closer,” I say as I sit down on the ground.

The kids look at each other for a moment, then at the teacher, and then back at me. Then the first brave one slides out of their chair and scoots closer. Soon enough, I am surrounded by sixteen nine-year-olds. I lower my head as if I am going to tell them a story at the campfire.

“Have any of you ever seen a real fire?” I ask, my voice deep.

A little hand shoots up.

“My abuela’s kitchen burned down once,” a bright-eyed boy replies.

“Ay, niño,” I exhale. “What do you remember?”

“Uhm… There were flames, and smoke, and abuela cried. And then there were the firefighters. And they used their hoses and then it was done.”

I smile. Kid logic is simple. I love that. My nod toward the boy is dutiful, and his classmates are gaping at him.

“That’s right. When there is a fire, we come to put it out.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” one of the girls asks.

I smile at her. “Very dangerous. The flames can get up to a thousand degrees. That is so hot that it can melt steel.”