Page 25 of Until We Come Home

They’re looking over some kind of checklist together, Ollie nodding attentively to every word while Barnes talks in his gravelly, no-bullshit tone. He’s led the wildland operations out of this station for longer than I’ve been alive. Gray hair, weathered face, and he still looks like he could handle himself in a brawl without breaking a sweat.

Barnes glances up when I walk in, as does the kid, but he keeps talking to finish his point about some upcoming training rotation. That’s Barnes for you. A tail thumps against the floor, and I look down to find Dozer stretched out on the rug in front of the desk, one ear flipped inside out.

The black lab mix was found as a puppy on a brush fire out past Monroe about seven years ago, and he’s been Station 7’s dog ever since. Technically he belongs to the station, but he rides home with Barnes every night, and everybody knows who his person is.

Dozer gets up, stretches, and trots over to lean his whole weight against my shins. I crouch down and scratch behind his ear while his tail whacks the side of the desk. I’ve missed him more than I’ve missed most people.

“Alright, and then we’ll go over the rest of it after lunch,” Barnes finishes, and turns to face me fully. “Glad to see you, son. Wasn’t sure you’d actually make it.”

“Of course.” I give Dozer a last scratch and straighten up. “Figured I’d come make sure you weren’t exaggerating about the season.”

Ollie immediately steps around the desk with his hand out. “Uh, man, it’s an honor to meet you, Mateo. Sir. Uh, Mateo.”

"Mateo's fine," I tell him, shaking his hand. "Good to meet you, Ollie. Glad to have you on the crew."

“Me too.” He smiles, looking a little flustered. “And I hope it’s okay to say this, but you’re part of why I wanted to fight fire in the first place. Years back I saw that news story out of Cutter Lake, and the way you got all those people out of there. I mean, singlehandedly! It was unreal.”

“Uh, thanks,” I say. “That’s a generous way of putting it.”

Cutter Lake comes up a lot. It was one of my more memorable calls, though mostly it was dumb luck and no sense of self-preservation. It horrified my mom, who still brings it up every time I mention going on shift.

“Mateo’s good at his job, not a celebrity,” Barnes says. “Don’t get any ideas, Ollie, and hopefully you’ll be better at taking a captain’s orders than this one.”

“I take orders fine,” I say. “I just take them a little late sometimes.”

“Remind me why I wanted you back.” Barnes shakes his head, the way he does when he’s already tired of a conversation.

“Fuck if I know,” I say, laughing.

Ollie laughs, his eyes going from Barnes to me and back as if weighing where his loyalty should lie. "It was great meeting you, Mateo. I'll get out of your hair."

He steps out, the door clicking shut behind him, and I set my duffel down as Dozer wanders back to his spot on the rug. Barnes looks me over.

"Here's hoping the kid picks up a few of your instincts and none of your habit of going rogue on the radio," Barnes says, the faint hint of a grin on his face as he leans back in his chair. "I swear I gain ten new gray hairs every season you're on my roster."

"Then why'd you pull so many strings to get me back?" I ask.

"Because you're somehow one of the best guys I've got," he grunts, reaching for his mug.

"Careful, Barnes. You're getting sentimental."

"Push it and I'll have you testing hose lines for the rest of the summer," he warns, tapping a pen on the desk. "Now sit down so we can go over the schedule."

I take the chair across from him, and Barnes pulls a thick folder from the stack on his desk and opens it up.

"You're on A shift with Rebecca, same as last year," he says, running a thick finger down the page. "She's riding officer, James has the wheel, and you've got Callum in the back. Ollie's on the main rig for standard calls, but when a brush fire drops, he's riding with you. I want you keeping an eye on him."

"Works for me," I say. "Seems like a decent kid. A little green, but I'll take nervous over cocky any day."

He looks up at me over his glasses. "Your recertification all squared away?"

"Wrapped it up in Boston back in May," I tell him. "Paperwork's in my duffel. I'll drop it on your desk before I head out."

"Pack test is Thursday, six a.m. sharp at the high school track. Rebecca's running the timer, and before you ask, no, you don't get a pass. I don't care if you've done a hundred of them."

Three miles carrying forty-five pounds of gear in under forty-five minutes. I've done it every single summer since I was eighteen without a hitch, but the state doesn't care about past records, and Barnes certainly isn't making exceptions for me.

"Thursday's fine," I say. "I'll be there."