Page 23

JACK

A sharp, piercing tone blares through the station's speakers, jolting me awake.

I dozed off reading the last few chapters of the book I picked up on my first shift back two days ago. The paperback flies to the ground from where it was laying on my chest, my body jackknifing up at the alert.

All around me, an urgent yet controlled chaos erupts—boots thumping against the hardwood of the stations living quarters; all the guys making their way downstairs where we keep our gear in the garage as a computerized voice rapidly dispatches the unit number, location, and type of emergency we’re heading into.

Please be a routine call. Please be a routine call.

I close my eyes, waiting for the voice to repeat the type of emergency as I stand up from the lounge chair, following the nine other guys downstairs, my book and reading glasses forgotten on the floor behind me.

“ Attention Engine 12, Tanker 4, Ladder 3 – respond to a structure fire, possible barn fully involved. Address: 4597 County Road 12. Caller reports visible flames and livestock on site. Time out: 03:17. ”

My vision goes blurry, and it takes everything in me to make it down the last three stairs, tripping over my own feet as I step onto the concrete floor of the garage, the rest of the crew in different stages of suiting up.

Muscle memory and adrenaline take over, my body taking me to my locker. Opening the metal door, my gear stares back at me—gear I haven’t put on in over 18 months, not since the night my best friend was suiting up next to me.

The night he died.

I got through my first shift earlier this week without an emergency call involving a fire, but my luck seems to have run out.

I look to my left where Bennett’s locker is— was —and I can’t fight the urge to open it, wishing to find a piece of him where it’s supposed to be.

“Get going, Hasting!” someone yells, but I don’t turn around to see who.

I open Bennett’s locker, finding it empty.

No gear, no helmet, no picture of him, Luke, and their older brother, Caleb, taped to the inside, no stash of gummy bears that he hid in there because he said someone at the station was stealing them.

Empty.

“What’s wrong, Hasting? Why aren’t you in your gear?” Anderson comes into view, his brown eyes give me something to focus on, my vision clearing, but I can barely hear him over the pounding in my ears and the sound of the engine of the fire truck turning over.

I shake my head. “I’m going. Just give me a fucking second.”

Anderson puts a hand on my shoulder, and it takes everything in me not to shove it off. “We keep it empty, as a sign of respect.”

He doesn’t have to say more. His words are enough.

I blow out a breath as Anderson gives me a nod before he puts his helmet on and turns to head toward the truck.

I let muscle memory take over again, closing Bennett’s locker and facing mine, gearing up like I’ve done hundreds of times before, but the first time since being back.

Kicking off my station boots, I step into my turnout boots already settled in my bunker pants, yanking them on and settling the band on my waist. I snap the suspenders into place, throwing my jacket over my station T-shirt.

I grab my helmet and gloves from the top shelf before closing my locker and turning to follow the rest of the crew to the truck.

Lights and sirens blaring, we speed toward the scene.

The wind coming through the window is cool against my skin as I scan the streets, watching as the city lights fade and get replaced by open fields.

The heat from the truck’s interior mixes with the rising tension in my chest, every bump in the road a reminder of the potential danger that lies ahead.

The rest of the crew prepares, focused and silent, their faces set with resolve as we listen for any updates over the truck’s radio and listen to any orders from our station’s Fire Lieutenant.

As the truck approaches the scene, I can see a bright orange blaze in the distance, getting larger and larger as we get closer. The faint smell of smoke hits me softly at first, and then it punches through me. I feel my chest tighten, and my palms are slick beneath my gloves.

I grip my helmet hard enough to hear the plastic protest as the truck comes to a stop, the crew all filing out without a hint of hesitation, as if they don’t care what they’re running straight into—doing exactly what we were trained to do.

Once again, my body takes over, falling in line with the rest of my crew. I hop out of the truck, ready to listen to our Fire Lieutenant give the orders.

Putting my helmet on, I try to focus on his raised voice, but once I see the barn, I can’t tear my eyes away.

The structure is consumed by a towering inferno, flames licking the sky as thick black smoke billows out, darkening the horizon.

The wood crackles and groans under the heat, and it’s seconds away from collapsing.

No. Bennett’s in there.

If that roof collapses, he’s dead.

Someone has to get him out of there.

I have to get him out of there.

But I can’t.

My feet won’t move.

Even as the rest of the crew begin working in tandem on their assigned roles—assessing the situation by identifying hazards, determining the fire’s origin and size, evaluating any potential risks to people, property, or the environment, gathering the necessary equipment—I’m stuck.

Frozen in place.

Left to watch as my best friend gets killed by the very thing we are trained to fight.

“Hasting!” Someone calls my name, but the ringing in my ears is too loud. I watch as the roof of the barn crashes to the ground, flames expanding and shooting up in the dark sky, but I can’t even scream.

It feels like every bone—every muscle—in my body has turned to ice despite the sweat coating my skin.

It feels like the slightest touch will shatter me.

My chest rises and falls in quick successions, my lungs feeling like they could explode at any moment from the lack of oxygen and the heavy smoke.

“Hasting!” I think I hear my name again, but I can’t be sure. It sounds like Anderson, but it could be someone else.

I watch as they bring over the hoses, the water drowning the fire, and, in a matter of minutes, it’s like it was never there—the orange hue disappearing, leaving us all with only the lights from the truck and the stars overhead.

I don’t know how long I stand there, and I don’t know how I make it back to the truck.

It isn’t until I’m standing in the station’s garage, alone and still in my gear, that I fall to my knees.

At some point, I make it back to the station’s living quarters, finding my forgotten paperback and reading glasses put on the side table, someone having picked them up from the floor.

The station was quiet when I finally made it up there, the crew thankfully letting me do it on my own, leaving me to wallow in my own self-pity and embarrassment of what the fuck I let happen to myself tonight.

I don’t think I slept more than an hour, and I can feel the lack of sleep in every inch of my body during the shift change briefing, barely being able to stand without feeling my eyes droop close and my body swaying to the side.

After last night, the last thing I want to do is linger around the station.

What I need right now is to grab my shit, hit the gym and tire myself out even more, so I can sleep hard enough to avoid the nightmares.

I’m almost to my truck, when I hear my last name being shouted behind me.

The sense of deja vu hits me instantly, along with the realization that I forgot I was supposed to meet the chief in his office after this morning’s briefing.

“Hasting!” Chief Sanders shouts again, and I let my head fall back, my eyes closing. Annoyance floods through me, my irritation seconds away from boiling into anger.

I turn and find the chief only a few steps behind me.

“We need to talk,” he says curtly when he closes the distance between us.

He didn’t come with us on the call last night, having left the responsibility of leadership in the hands of our Fire Lieutenant, but I’m sure he read the reports early this morning.

“About?” I ask. I never thought I’d be actually hoping to discuss these goddamn therapy sessions, but right now? I’d talk about them for hours to avoid even just a few minutes discussing what happened to me out in the field.

“Have you scheduled your therapy sessions?” Chief Sanders crosses his arms over his chest, his feet wide. He’s in cargo pants and a Northshore Fire Department collared shirt. His eyes are fixed on me as he waits for my answer.

“Not yet.” The words sound too clipped. “I was planning on doing it today,” I lie, softening my voice to avoid a reprimand.

Chief Sanders nods, and his assessment of me makes my skin feel prickly.

“You agreed to weekly sessions,” he reminds me, as if I could forget.

Between the chief, my mom, and my sister asking me and reminding me about these sessions, it’s starting to feel like it would be easier to just go rather than explain to them how they’re fucking pointless.

“The therapist is available this morning if you want to get started today.”

“I don’t,” I retort, and it comes off harsher than I intend. “I’ll give the office a call and set something up for one of my days off next week.”

Chief Sanders rolls his lips together, taking a step closer to me. “I have a hard time believing that, son.”

“If you’re not going to listen to what I say then I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Anderson told me what happened on last night’s call.”