Page 16

JACK

“Those were the only two stops in this building, so we’ll head to the duplexes across the street to finish up,” Anderson says, as we hop back into one of the station’s pickup trucks.

We’ve finished seven of our stops tonight, and all seven have been compliant with their fire safety regulations.

So far, all of the local businesses had the proper smoke alarms and functional and maintained sprinklers.

I don’t mention to Anderson how familiar I am with this particular building, seeing as though I was just here last night. I didn’t realize the building that Lenny’s and Hey Honey’s is in was on our list for stops tonight.

To be completely honest, both times my mind was as far away from anything having to do with my job as possible.

As I tune out Anderson’s need to narrate everything he’s thinking to fill the silence between us, my mind wanders to what—or who —made it so easy to forget the things that usually take up so much space in my brain.

For reasons unbeknownst to me, Rumi has a way of becoming my sole focus when my mind drifts, like she can quiet my mind when she’s not even here.

When I think of her, I don’t think about how lonely I feel in the station without Bennett, or how my heart races when someone turns on the kitchen’s gas stove.

I don’t think about how my stomach drops when we get a call, scared that I’ll have to gear up and rush into a fire, or how I’m already nervous to come back for my next shift when this one hasn’t even ended.

Thinking of her has a way of blurring everything else, and my thoughts only focus on her.

And I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a very, very bad thing.

When we stopped at Lenny’s to do our inspection, I recognized Emmett behind the bar.

He’s not a man of many words or someone who cares for small-talk, which I greatly appreciate.

It made mine and Anderson’s inspection quick and painless, aside from the strength it took to stop glancing over at the side of the bar where Rumi and I sat the night before, as if she would be there with her messy braid and her freshwater eyes.

We gave Lenny’s the stamp of approval before walking down to the pizza place, the only other of the four businesses in the building that were open after 6 p.m.

Emmett owns the entire building, so I figured if Lenny’s was good to go for the fire inspection, the rest would be. We were in and out of the pizza place in a few minutes, but we will still need to circle back to the bookstore and Hey Honey’s tomorrow morning before our shift ends, just to be safe.

The tires of the truck hum against the darkening road as we pass identical duplexes, trimmed lawns, and matching driveways under the soft streetlight. The evening sky is painted in soft purples and pinks, and the cool May air seeps in through the opened windows of the station’s pickup truck.

Anderson slows to a stop. “I figured we can start here and work our way back toward the entrance of the neighborhood. The members of the crew on for tomorrow can start here and work down the other way.”

I give him a nod, grabbing my clipboard and stepping onto the road.

This neighborhood is nice, perfect for couples or small families, and it’s reassuring to know these houses are owned by a company that cares for their tenants safety.

People are often surprised when we show up to walk through their apartment or rental house, checklist in hand instead of a hose, and in our station wear rather than full-on fire gear.

We often have to explain that nothing is wrong, and we’re just here for a fire inspection, requested by the leasing office or property management.

These walkthroughs aren’t always what people expect.

We’re not there to hand out a fine or tear the place apart.

We’re looking for basic safety stuff—working smoke alarms, clear exits, functioning carbon monoxide detectors, and fire extinguishers on each level of the house.

As part of our community’s safety program, firefighters are the ones making the rounds, rather than fire inspectors or marshals.

And the goal’s simple: make sure the place you live isn’t a fucking trap if something goes wrong. I’ve seen what happens when it is, and a five-minute check can save lives.

I shake the thoughts away, not wanting my mind to go to that dark place, but they come at me faster than I can will them away.

I’ve spent months wondering if one of these five-minute checks could have prevented the fire that killed Bennett. I can’t count how many times I wished I could find out who did the fire inspections in that house, if it was done right.

If it was done at all.

I feel the rush of anger overwhelm me as I think about how preventable a house fire is.

After the smoke clears and the sirens fade, people always ask if there was anything they could’ve done.

And the hard truth is—yeah, a lot of the time, there fucking was .

Most house fires start from things we can control: candles burning near curtains, faulty appliances, bad wiring that’s been ignored for years, lint buildup in a dryer, fireplaces left unattended, grills too close to the house.

Or in the case of the fire that killed Bennett, a space heater that was too close to a blanket.

And if the idiot hadn’t gone back in—against better judgement, against orders, if he would’ve waited one minute—he would’ve seen there was nothing to go back in for.

That the daughter got out.

That she wasn’t still inside of the house.

“Jack?” I flinch at the voice that is only mere inches from my face, and it takes all my willpower not to deck Anderson in the jaw. I didn’t realize he rounded the truck and came up next to me.

“What?” I snap.

“I said,” he starts, carefully, putting his hands up in surrender as he takes a few steps back, “let’s start over here.

” He points to the duplex he parked the truck in front of, a gray sedan sitting on one side of the driveway, the other side empty.

It looks like each house is split into two living units, each with its own garage and a shared driveway.

I exhale as we start walking toward the front door. It takes a moment to register, but as we get closer to the door, a faint scent of smoke hits me. I don’t have time to question it because the sound of a fire alarm begins blaring loud enough to hear even through the house’s closed windows.

I try to take another step, but my feet feel glued to the spot on the sidewalk and my body threatens to freeze. Instinct wants to take over, go toward the smoke and extinguish it, but it’s overridden by something stronger.

Fear .

It’s like I’m on the side of the road hearing the ambulance all over again, seconds away from being thrown back into the worst moment of my life. The edges of my vision begin to blur, and my legs shake as if they are about to buckle.

No .

This can’t be happening. Not again.

“Damn it,” Anderson mutters before breaking into a sprint toward the house, banging on the door. “Northshore Fire Department!” he yells. Through the windows, it’s evident there are no visible flames. I try to tell myself that, but my body won’t listen. I’m still stuck in place.

I close my eyes.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

What is it that we’re supposed to tell people when they’re experiencing a trauma-response? I wrack my mind for something to make this weight in my chest subside.

Then, I hear a scream, and it brings me right out of the panic attack that I know is seconds away from taking over me.

Dropping my clipboard, I sprint toward the door Anderson is still pounding on, but I don’t hesitate. “Back up,” I yell at him, and, to his credit, he does instantly.

Aiming just above the doorknob, I drive my heel into the door with a sharp, controlled stomp—once, then again, until the frame gives with a crack and the door flies inward.

The air inside rushes out hot and thick, smoke blurring our vision as I enter the house, the fire alarm blaring even louder now that we’re closer to it.

“Go see if we have a fire extinguisher in the truck!” I yell over my shoulder to Anderson as another scream fills the air, but I’m not sure if it’s because of the fire or because this person just heard their house get broken into.

“Northshore Fire Department!” I call out, announcing my presence, hoping to eliminate any potential fear. I use one arm to bat away the thin, gray smoke as I enter the house.

“Over here,” a small voice says, followed by a cough. I make my way through the entryway and the small hallway leading to the kitchen, the unmistakable smell of something burning filling my nose.

Through the thin layer of smoke, I can see a small figure, one hand throwing a tray of burnt somethings outside her back patio door while the other holds a towel around her body.

Her wet, naked body.

I try not to focus on the latter, finding the open oven—no flames, thankfully.

I quickly move toward it, shutting it off and closing it as the screen of the back patio door slides shut, a small breeze coming in and helping with the lingering smoke.

Grabbing a towel I find on the counter, I begin batting the rest of the smoke away as I hear windows being slid open. The smoke alarm finally stops blaring, and I set the towel down, reluctantly turning to the woman in the towel.

And when I do, I can’t look away.

Strands of dark wet hair fall over her shoulders, making her blue eyes even brighter against her pale skin—skin that is coated in drops of water falling from her waves, instantly making my throat dry.

Her arm is still holding her towel around her, and the rise and fall of her chest matches mine as the chaos of the last few minutes—along with the smoke—settles around us.

“Jack?” Rumi says, the grip on her towel tightening. I can’t help the pride that fills my chest that there’s recognition when she looks at me, unlike yesterday at the coffee shop.