Page 111 of Honeyfires

"You need to be evaluated first. Smoke inhalation, possible burns, dehydration. Standard protocol."

So I sat on the examination table in a paper gown, my filthy gear in a heap on the floor, while a doctor who looked barely older than Vera checked me over. Oxygen saturation. Blood pressure. Heart rate. He listened to my lungs, frowned at whatever he heard, and ordered a chest X-ray.

"Your O2 levels are low," he said, clipping a pulse oximeter to my finger. "And you've got significant smoke inhalation. I'm hearing some wheezing that concerns me."

"I'm fine." The words came out hoarse, my throat raw from breathing super-heated air and shouting orders.

"You're not fine. You're getting supplemental oxygen and staying for observation." He made notes on his tablet, not looking at me. "How long were you exposed to active fire?"

"I don't know. Twelve hours, maybe? Plus the evacuation—"

"Twelve hours." He looked up then, and I saw the concern in his eyes. "Ms. Alves, you're lucky you're not in worse shape. Your lungs took a beating today."

They put me on oxygen, the mask uncomfortable and claustrophobic against my face. Drew blood. Started an IV for fluids because apparently I was severely dehydrated—though I could have told them that without the tests. My hands were still shaking, a fine tremor that wouldn't stop no matter how hard I tried to control it.

"Adrenaline crash," the nurse explained when she caught me staring at them. "Your body's been running on fight-or-flight for hours. It'll pass."

But it didn't feel like it would pass. It felt like I'd never stop shaking, never stop seeing that wall of flame where we'd been standing, never stop hearing Stevens cry out when the debris hit him.

The X-rays came back. Minor smoke damage to my lungs, nothing that wouldn't heal with rest and clean air. No burns—my gear had done its job. Mild dehydration despite the IV. Exhaustion. Nothing life-threatening.

"You'll need to take it easy for a few days," the doctor said. "No strenuous activity. Rest. Lots of fluids. Your lungs need time to recover."

I nodded, not bothering to mention my career might be over anyway. Rest wasn't going to be a problem.

They finally let me out of the exam room, still in my filthy gear that someone had brought back to me. The oxygen mask was gone, replaced with a nasal cannula I was supposed to wear for the next few hours. I felt weak and useless when I should have been strong enough to just walk it off.

I found my way to the burn unit, to the plastic chairs in the hallway outside where Stevens was being treated. Sat down heavily, every muscle in my body screaming in protest. My lungs ached with each breath, a reminder that I'd spent twelve hours breathing smoke and ash and chemicals.

A nurse, a different one this time, offered me coffee. I took it without tasting it, simply grateful for something to wrap my hands around that might hide the trembling.

Stevens had deep second-degree burns covering most of his shoulder and upper arm, they told me. The debris had hit him while he was running, had been hot enough to burn him through the Nomex. He'd also inhaled super-heated air during that split second when the crown fire exploded behind us, which had collapsed one of his lungs. They'd put in a chest tube, stabilized him, pumped him full of pain medication and antibiotics.

He'd recover. It would take time. Weeks, maybe months. Skin grafts. Physical therapy. Definitely some scarring. But he'd live.

He'd followed my order. And now he was lying in a hospital bed with burns and a collapsed lung because I'd waited too long. If I'd called the evacuation five minutes earlier, before the debris started falling, before the fire crowned—

"Alves."

Rodriguez's voice cut through my spiral like a knife. I looked up to find him standing in the hallway, still in his gear, his face a mask of barely controlled fury. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his features, making him look older, harder.

I stood, pulling the nasal cannula out and letting it dangle around my neck. My legs were unsteady, but I locked my knees and met his eyes.

"Captain."

"Come with me." It wasn't a request.

He led me to a small consultation room, one of those sterile spaces where doctors delivered bad news to families. White walls, a table, uncomfortable chairs. The door closed behind us with a soft click that sounded like a gunshot in the silence.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. Rodriguez merely stood there, arms crossed, staring at me with an expression I couldn't read. Anger, yes. But something else, too. Disappointment, maybe. Or worse, doubt.

"You countermanded my direct order."

The words were flat, devoid of inflection, which somehow made them worse than if he'd shouted.

"That position was a death trap," I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. "The wind shifted, the fire was crowning, spot fires were kindling ahead of us. We had maybe thirty seconds before—"

"That's not your call to make."