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He researched PTSD. Though he rarely drank anything but water and sweet tea, he threw away every drop of alcohol in his house. He called and scheduled biweekly appointments with his therapist, and he told her about the breakdown. For the first time ever, Redmond would take the medication prescribed. Until something else worked, he’d do whatever he could to keep her safe.
His mind was the first thing that would need to heal, and Redmond had every intention of focusing on it.
Kellen, his battalion chief, didn’t talk to him after the incident with Aiden and the burning car, but Redmond had no doubt that news of his episode had reached Kellen’s desk shortly after the incident. The lack of correspondence said enough: If he had a second chance, he’d used it. Kellen would give him the benefit of the doubt that time, but one more incident, one more time when Redmond demonstrated a lack of enthusiasm for the job, and Kellen’s hand would be forced.
For that reason alone, Redmond convinced himself that he’d go to the next job and volunteer for the thing that made him most uncomfortable. He’d prove that he deserved the spot in the Engine 10 Company, even if he didn’t fully believe it.
When he and his crew arrived, they all completed their workout for the day, and Redmond competed with Aiden the way he did before the burns. It certainly didn’t feel as exciting and competitive as it had before, but his therapist insisted he do things that he enjoyed before his injury and competing with Aiden had been the highlight of many of his days. Redmond didn’t beat the kid like he used to—not even close—but he held his own. And when he finished, he felt a small sense of pride in himself for doing what he hadn’t done for years.
It took a few more hours before the engine went out to a crash, and Redmond didn’t allow room in his mind for questions or negative thoughts. He allowed himself only to consider the good things he’d do for the people at the crash. The lives he’d save.
“We’re coming up on the crash. We’re the first responders,” Redmond shouted back at the team. They banged on the roof in acknowledgment, and Redmond took a breath as he pulled the fire truck as close as they could get, leaving room only for the ambulance that would likely arrive within minutes.
Redmond didn’t hesitate to leave the engine, hopping down with an agility that felt both instinctive and enlightening. Redmond knew the job. He’d lived the job for so long that if he remained out of his head, he’d be fine.
A family stood beside their car, a little boy sitting at the feet of his parents, who leaned against the guardrail. The woman sobbed as she looked at their totaled van.
Redmond approached first. “Is anyone hurt?” He surveyed the child, then both parents. They all looked relatively unscathed for such a vicious crash.
“My wrist,” the woman said, clutching it to her chest. She looked down at her son, who stared at the car wordlessly. “I don’t think Bentley was hurt. He’s autistic. Nonverbal. When will the ambulance be here to check him?”
Redmond looked closer at the child. He’d been trained on how to deal with an autistic or special needs child, and they tended to respond well to him and his techniques, so he squatted in front of the boy. He couldn’t have been more than five or six, possibly younger, judging by the petite size of him. He didn’t acknowledge Redmond.
“Hey, Bentley,” Redmond said. The only response was a slight flickering of the boy’s gaze. Redmond lowered himself lower to the ground, sitting cross-legged in front of the boy. The parents looked down at Redmond with uncertainty, but they didn’t speak. “You like cars?” he asked, taking a shot in the dark.
Bentley glanced at him a little longer, his body doing a small wiggle beneath Redmond’s gaze. Jackpot. “I brought a fire truck that you can look at, Bentley. You can even turn on the lights.”
That really caught his attention. He looked away from the wrecked car and toward the firetruck, his body excitedly bouncing at the thought. “But first, can you show me if anything hurts? Did you get hurt when your car wrecked?”
The boy pulled himself to his feet, utterly transfixed by the thought of exploring the fire engine. The mother cut in. “When he’s distracted, you won’t be able to get his attention. Trust me, it doesn’t work.”
Redmond nodded, understanding. He stood, positioning himself between the boy and the fire engine. He expected to need to move as the boy tried to keep his eyes fixed on what he wanted, but Bentley surprised him, looking at Redmond instead. His eyes caught on the harsh skin of his arm, exposed by the uniform T-shirt he wore. Redmond had gotten used to people—especially children—staring at his healed burns. But Bentley’s gaze gave him a different feeling as the boy moved to touch the burns.
“Do you have anything like this, Bentley?” Redmond asked, allowing the boy to analyze his burned arm.
Bentley held up his arm and showed Redmond a shallow cut, hardly deeper than a papercut. It spread from the bottom to the top of the child’s forearm, and it still oozed blood in a few spots. Still distracted by the burns on his arms, the boy didn’t notice as Redmond called over Shailene—the team member most versed in first aid.
“That looks like it hurts, little guy,” she said, pulling disinfectant from the first aid kit and rubbing it across the wound. Redmond cringed, knowing that the disinfectant had to sting, but Bentley didn’t veer his attention from Redmond’s damaged arm.
From the moment it happened, Redmond had felt self-conscious every time someone noticed his arm, but he didn’t feel the shame as Bentley found himself transfixed. Redmond’s scars were finally doing something, even if it was as insignificant as distracting an autistic child while Shailene bandaged his arm to contain the bleeding until the medic arrived.
Redmond saw his scars in a new light as a small smile found its way onto Bentley’s face. The child examined his own arm, scowling when he saw the difference. He thrust his arm into Redmond, continuing to trace the patterns of Redmond’s marred flesh.
“I’m so sorry about him,” the father claimed, stepping forward with a look of deep shame.
“It’s really no problem.”
Even once Shailene finished, Redmond allowed the boy to continue messing with his arm. The father reached for his son, but Bentley jerked away, keeping close to Redmond. The father kneeled in front of his son, and Redmond watched with a patient gaze.
“Bent, this man has a job to do.”
That meant nothing to Bentley, and the child’s attention didn’t so much as waver from Redmond. “It’s really no problem,” Redmond told him. “He’ll get tired of my burns eventually. If I can keep him distracted while the medics take a look at him and the other responders get the crash cleared, I’d be happy to stay here.”
The gratitude that shone on both parents’ faces told Redmond all he needed to know about how they expected people to react to their son. The dad stood and put a hand on Bentley’s head, which Bentley wiggled away from immediately.
“People don’t usually… understand him. We really are sorry about the attention he’s giving your arm. I hope it’s of no offense to you.”
Redmond shook his head. “Everyone notices it. It doesn’t bother me.”
