Page 36 of Her Unending Horizon

The captain’s gaze hit my face first. The eyebrow lifted a fraction higher when it landed on the bruise coloring around my eye, then shifted down to the way I was guarding my side without meaning to.

“Post,” he said. “Sit.”

I sat. It hurt. I pretended it didn’t.

Rankin shut the door and leaned back against the filing cabinet, arms crossed. He didn’t have to say a damn thing. His silence was one long, pointed sentence.

Holbrook took off his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, and got right to it.

“Tell me why you’re walking like someone took a bat to your ribs.”

“It’s nothing,” I said automatically. “Tweaked something. I’m fine to work.”

Holbrook’s brows went up. Slowly. The way they do right before a structure fire goes defensive and nobody argues about it.

“Funny,” he said, “because I watched you cross the bay holding your breath on every third step. People don’t hold their breath when something ‘tweaks.’ They hold their breath when it hurts like hell.”

I stared past him at a point on the wall. If I didn’t look at either of them, maybe I could maintain the illusion just a little longer.

Holbrook clasped his hands on the desk. “Interior today means SCBA, hose push, breaching, and probably stairs. You taking full air with two cracked ribs is a good way to drown yourself on your own pain.”

“I can do interior,” I muttered.

Rankin snorted. One sound. No words. Plenty of commentary.

Holbrook’s voice didn’t rise, but it sharpened. “I am not sending a firefighter into smoke who has to think twice about breathing. I am not putting your crew in position to drag you out because you let your pride outrank your lungs.”

That one punched harder than JJ’s takedown.

I looked at my boots. My hands. Anywhere but the captain.

Holbrook softened only a fraction. “When did this happen?”

“Yesterday,” I admitted.

“How?” he asked.

Silence stretched. I wasn’t about to say “illegal levels of bad decisions and an MMA kid with a good right hook,” so I gave him the least incriminating truth.

“Gym,” I said. “Sparring.”

Rankin muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “bullshit sparring,” but Holbrook didn’t press. He didn’t need to. He already had what he needed.

“You see a doctor?” he asked.

I nodded once. “Urgent care. No pneumothorax. No displacement.” I lied.

Holbrook rubbed his jaw. “That’s something, at least.”

Then he grabbed a form from the stack to his right and clicked his pen.

“Post, you’re benched from interior until cleared. Seventy-two hours minimum for light duty—inventory, community calls, EMS assist only. No ladders, no bottles, no fireground, no lifting more than twenty pounds. Full clearance when you can take a deep breath without bracing.”

I swallowed hard.

“Cap—” I tried.

He held up a hand. “This isn’t punishment. It’s safety. The fire won’t care how stubborn you are. It’ll just take the opportunity.”