Page 4 of Embers in Autumn

Dean

There was a rhythm to the firehouse. A kind of steady pulse beneath the clang of metal doors, the hiss of hoses, and the smell of sweat, smoke, and stale coffee.

I’d been with this station for almost fifteen years, and it felt more like home than the house I lived in.

Cinderblock walls painted an institutional beige, gear racks lined up like soldiers waiting for orders, the constant chatter of radios and the occasional bark of laughter echoing off the garage floor—it was rough, loud, and unpolished. But it was steady. Dependable.

My crew was the same.

Mike, broad as a wall and always chewing on something—gum, jerky, sunflower seeds—sat at the table dealing out cards for a half-hearted poker game.

Santos leaned back in his chair, boots propped up, flipping through his phone, probably texting the girlfriend he swore wasn’t serious.

And Connor, the rookie, was double-checking the engine for the third time today, trying to look useful but managing to trip over every damn hose.

“Kid’s going to polish that truck until it shines,” Mike muttered, tossing a card into the pile.

“Better than you, old man,” Santos shot back without looking up.

I didn’t join in. Banter was their language, but mine was silence, most of the time.

I kept to my coffee, sitting at the edge of the table where I could see the bay doors and the gleam of Engine 14 waiting for us. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate the noise and jokes. It just didn’t stick to me the way it used to. Too much weight on my shoulders these days. Too much to protect.

Lana’s face flickered in my mind—her grin as she hugged those books earlier, the spark in her eyes when she talked about stories. I hadn’t seen her light up like that in a while.

And the woman behind the counter. Amber. She’d looked at Lana like she mattered. Like she was seen. Hell, she’d looked at me like she could see straight through me, too, though I wasn’t sure I liked that.

Not that it mattered. Women like her? Bright, soft, hopeful? They weren’t for men like me.

The sharp buzz of the alarm system cut through my thoughts.

“All units, respond—structure fire reported on Oakridge Drive. Residential. Occupants possibly inside.”

The room snapped to motion instantly. Poker chips clattered to the floor. Boots hit the concrete. Connor nearly dropped his helmet in his rush, and Mike swore under his breath as he yanked his jacket from the rack.

I didn’t waste time. The adrenaline hit like it always did, a cold clarity sharpening everything. Jacket. Mask. Radio check. The weight of responsibility settling across my shoulders the moment I pulled my helmet down.

Within seconds, we were piled into the truck, the siren splitting the air as we tore out of the station.

Connor’s leg bounced nervously beside me. Mike smacked the dashboard like it owed him money. Santos checked his air tank, lips pressed tight.

I closed my eyes just for a second, pulling in one deep breath. Not a prayer exactly, but close. Then I opened them again, and we were rounding the corner, smoke already curling into the sky.

By the time we hit Oakridge Drive, smoke was already twisting up into the sky, thick and black against the pale autumn afternoon. The sharp tang of it crept through the vents, and my jaw clenched.

“Two-story, residential,” I barked, scanning the scene as we pulled up. The roofline was clear, but flames licked hungrily at the back windows, curling through the siding. “Looks like it started in the kitchen. Connor, grab the hose line. Santos, check the gas shutoff. Mike, ventilation.”

They moved without hesitation, muscle memory kicking in. Connor wrestled the line off the rig, his shoulders straining as water rushed through it. Santos sprinted toward the side of the house, crouching by the meter. Mike yanked a fan from the truck, already eyeing the roof vents.

Neighbors clustered on the lawn across the street, their voices rising in a chaotic mix—questions, prayers, sobs. I cut through it all, searching for the homeowner.

“Everyone out?” I asked, my voice sharp, steady.

A woman in her forties clutched a teenage boy by the arm, her eyes wide and wet. “We think so, we think so. My husband he... he went back in for the dog—”

Goddamn it.

I didn’t waste another second. “Mask up.” My voice was calm, but my heart spiked. This was the part you never got used to.

I hauled the mask over my face, strapped my air tank tight, and motioned for Connor to follow with the line.

Heat slammed into me as we breached the back door, flames clawing up the kitchen cabinets, smoke rolling like a living thing.

Visibility dropped to nothing, just the orange glow and the hiss of water as Connor hit the fire.

“Keep it low!” I ordered. “Short bursts—don’t flood it!”

I dropped to my knees, crawling, my gloved hand sweeping the floor. The air was a furnace, every breath rasping through the mask. Somewhere above the roar, I heard it—a bark, sharp and frantic.

“Got him!” I shouted, pushing forward.

The husband was crouched in the corner, a golden retriever pressed against his chest. His face was streaked with soot, his breath ragged.

“Let’s go!” I hauled him up, slinging his arm over my shoulder while Connor kept the spray steady, buying us precious seconds. The dog scrambled at our heels, nails skittering on the linoleum.

We stumbled out into the open air, the coolness hitting like a wave. The wife sobbed, throwing herself around her husband, around the dog. The crowd clapped and cried, relief crashing over them in noisy waves.

Behind me, Mike called out, “Ventilation’s good! Fire’s under control!” Santos gave a sharp whistle of confirmation.

I yanked my mask off, sucking in the crisp October air, sweat running in rivers beneath my jacket. My pulse was still a hammer, but already I knew this one wasn’t going to haunt me tonight. Everyone was out. Everyone was alive.

I turned back, watching Connor drag the last of the hose toward the truck, smoke still curling into the sky. Rookie or not, he’d held steady. That was something.

“Good work,” I called, voice hoarse but firm.

He glanced back, eyes wide behind the mask, and nodded hard.

By the time we rolled back into the station, the adrenaline had worn thin, leaving only the ache in my shoulders and the lingering sting of smoke in my throat.

The rookie looked like he might collapse into a puddle, Mike was already digging for another pack of jerky, and Santos leaned against the truck like he owned it. Normal, in our way.

We cleaned gear, stowed equipment, logged the run. Then the shift was over, and just like that, the world outside the firehouse started creeping back in.

I drove across town, the weight of the day sliding off piece by piece, until the neon glow of a pizza joint pulled me in. A double pepperoni, Lana’s favorite. Greasy, cheesy, the kind of thing that made her smile no matter how sour her mood.

By the time I carried it up the walkway to our house, the sun was low, spilling orange over the shingles.

The place wasn’t much. A modest two-story, cream siding that needed a paint job, shutters that had seen better years.

But the porch was solid, and the light in the front window always came on when we walked inside.

It was home.

I kicked off my boots in the narrow entryway, setting the pizza box on the counter. The house smelled faintly of old wood and laundry detergent.

“Lana?” I called.

No answer. Typical .

I found her upstairs, sprawled across her bed with a book in hand, the lamplight pooling across her hair. Always reading. Always disappearing into some other world.

I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. At least she wasn’t glued to her phone like most kids her age. But still, sometimes I worried. Reading was safe, quiet. Too quiet. I wanted her to have friends, laughter, a life that didn’t feel so… small.

Raising a twelve-year-old girl wasn’t something you could learn in a manual.

Half the time, I had no damn clue what I was doing.

She wasn’t a little kid anymore, but she wasn’t grown either.

One wrong word and she’d either roll her eyes or break into tears.

And me? I was just trying not to screw her up more than life already had.

She looked up and spotted me, her whole face lighting up. “Dad!”

That grin—God, it killed me every time.

“Come on down,” I said, lifting the box. “Got your favorite.”

She shot up from the bed, book abandoned, and practically flew down the stairs ahead of me. At the table, she flipped the lid open like it was Christmas morning.

“Double pepperoni. Yes!” She grabbed a slice, cheese stretching, sauce already dripping onto her plate.

I sat across from her, taking my own piece, and for a while the only sound was chewing and the faint creak of the old house settling around us.

Then she launched into it, as she always did—every ounce of school gossip pouring out between bites of pizza. Who liked who, who got detention for passing notes, how her math teacher wore mismatched socks, and how someone’s older brother was suspended for pulling the fire alarm as a prank.

Her hands flew as she talked, eyes shining, her voice running a mile a minute.

And I just sat back, listening, nodding, pretending like every detail was the most important news in the world.

Because for her, it was.

And for me, hearing her laugh was better than any quiet night I could ask for.

“Dad?” Lana wiped her mouth on a napkin, a little sauce smudged on her chin. “What about your day? Anything… exciting?”

I hesitated, leaning back in my chair. Exciting wasn’t the word I’d use. Smoke. Heat. A man clutching his dog like it was a child. But those weren’t the details she needed to carry.

“Busy,” I said instead, keeping my voice even. “Couple of calls. Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

Her brow furrowed, just a flicker, and I knew she was trying to read between the lines. She always did.

“You’re okay, though?” she asked, quieter now.

My chest tightened. She’d lost her mother before she even knew what it meant to have one. I’d be damned if I let her grow up carrying the fear of losing me too.

“Yeah, bug,” I said, reaching over to tap the end of her nose. “I’m fine. Always fine.”

She grinned again, but I saw the way she tucked that reassurance away like she was saving it for later.

When the plates were empty and the box reduced to greasy cardboard, I stood to toss it. That’s when I spotted the paper bag on the counter. A folded flyer sat beside it, orange and black, a cartoon pumpkin grinning up at me.

“What’s this?” I asked, picking it up.

“Oh.” Lana reached for her drink, trying to sound casual. “It was in the bag from the bookstore. Some Halloween thing for kids.”

I scanned it quickly—costume contest, activities, candy, book prizes. For ages up to fourteen.

“Sounds fun,” I said, sliding it back onto the counter. “You should go.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, suspicious. “Why?”

“Because,” I said, keeping my tone light, “it might be good to meet some other kids who like books as much as you. You’ve got the school crowd, sure, but this…

this is different. These kids would get it.

Plus…” I tapped the line at the bottom of the flyer.

“Book prizes for best costumes. You could clean up.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re such a dad.”

“Guilty.”

I didn’t add the other thought—buried, quiet. That I wouldn’t exactly mind stepping into that bookstore again myself.

The cinnamon, the shelves, the soft glow. And the woman behind the counter who looked at me like I wasn’t just another man burned down to ash by life.