two
Alex
Something’s off.
"Brennan checking sector eight, all clear," I report, my breath visible in the cold night air.
This route takes me past the rental cabins on the eastern ridge. It's added twenty minutes to my patrol for the past five years, but I make the detour anyway. Old habits. Necessary precautions. At forty, I've learned that five minutes of prevention saves years of regret.
The memory surfaces without invitation: coming home to find our house engulfed in flames, the knowledge that Mike and Jason were inside. The knowledge that I wasn't.
I push the thought away and focus on my surroundings. The dry conditions have everyone on edge. Three months without significant rainfall means the forest is a tinderbox waiting for a careless camper or a lightning strike.
The smell hits me first. Smoke. Not the pleasant, contained scent of a properly maintained fireplace, but the acrid warning of something burning that shouldn't be.
I break into a jog, scanning the treeline. The rental cabins come into view—four of them scattered along the ridge, currently only one occupied according to the property manager's report. A wisp of smoke curls from the chimney of the occupied cabin, but that's not what concerns me.
It's the darker smoke seeping from beneath the eaves.
"This is Brennan. Possible structure fire at Pine View rentals, cabin three. Requesting backup." My voice is calm, practiced. I've made hundreds of similar calls over the years.
I don't wait for a response before breaking into a run. The smoke is thickening by the second.
At the door, I pound hard enough to wake anyone inside. "Fire department! Anyone in there?"
No response. I test the handle—unlocked. Smoke billows out as I push the door open, dropping into a crouch to stay beneath it. The heat hits me like a physical wall.
"Fire department! Call out!"
The main room is filling with smoke, but the source isn't immediately visible. A candle has burned down to nothing on a side table, but the flames are coming from the far corner where papers are scattered around a desk. As I move closer, I see her.
A young woman slumped over the desk, unconscious. Her face is pressed against an open laptop, a cascade of auburn hair spilling across the keyboard. She's not moving.
I cross the room in long strides, scanning for spreading flames. The burning papers have caught the edge of a curtain, and the dry fabric is feeding the fire along the wall. The structure is old, the wood seasoned by decades of mountain weather. This place will go up like kindling.
I lift the woman from the chair, noting how small she feels. Young. Probably mid-twenties. Breathing.
"I've got you," I mutter, though she can't hear me. Her head rolls against my shoulder as I carry her toward the door. A loud crack from above signals the fire reaching the support beams. We have minutes, maybe less.
Outside, I lay her down a safe distance from the cabin, checking her pulse and breathing. The cold air seems to rouse her slightly; her eyelids flutter but don't open.
"Station, this is Brennan. One victim, female, early twenties, smoke inhalation, semi-conscious. Fire spreading to roof structure. Need medical and full response."
While waiting for her to regain consciousness, I make a quick assessment. No visible burns. Breathing labored but improving in the clean air. Pulse rapid but strong. She's wearing an oversized sweater and leggings—hardly adequate for the mountain night chill. I remove my jacket and lay it over her.
A groan escapes her lips as her eyes begin to open. Green, I notice. The kind of green that reminds me of spring growth after a forest fire.
"W-what's happening?" Her voice is raspy from the smoke.
"Your cabin caught fire. You're safe now." I keep my voice even, professional, fighting an unexpected urge to hold her close.
Her eyes widen suddenly, panic replacing confusion. "My manuscript!" She tries to sit up, looking toward the cabin where flames are now visible through the windows. "My laptop!"
I place a firm hand on her shoulder, the contact sending an unsettling jolt through me. "Stay down. Nothing in there is worth your life."
Tears well in her eyes, and something inside me shifts. "You don't understand," she whispers. "That book is my career."
In the distance, I hear the wail of sirens approaching.
The backup team will be here in minutes.
The cabin's roof is fully involved now, orange flames licking up toward the night sky.
It's both beautiful and terrible, the way fire always is.
Yet I find myself unable to look away from her face, illuminated by the dancing firelight.
"What's your name?" I ask, keeping her focused away from the burning building, but also needing to know who she is in a way that defies professional interest.
"Sheryl," she manages between coughs. "Sheryl Cabot."
"I'm Alex Brennan, SAR Fire Coordinator." I check her pupils with my penlight—equal and reactive. Good sign. My fingers tremble slightly, an unfamiliar sensation. "You're going to be fine, Sheryl. The medical team will be here soon."
She watches my face with an intensity that feels almost physical, like she's reaching inside and rearranging things I'd carefully locked away. "You... you came in and got me?"
I nod once, unsettled by both her gratitude and my own visceral response to it.
This was supposed to be routine. After all, I've rescued dozens of people over the years.
Yet nothing feels routine about the way my pulse quickens when her fingers briefly touch my wrist. "You'll need to be checked for smoke inhalation.
The clinic will want to keep you overnight for observation. "
The reality of her situation seems to dawn on her as she looks back at the cabin. Her home, at least temporarily, being consumed by flames. "Where will I go?" The question seems directed more at herself than at me, but I feel its pull like a physical force.
The fire trucks arrive, bathing us in pulsing red light. The team jumps into action, unrolling hoses and assessing the structure. It's too late to save much, but they can prevent the fire from spreading to the surrounding forest.
I should join them. It's my job, my responsibility. Every instinct honed over twenty years in rescue work tells me to move, to help contain the blaze. Instead, I find myself rooted in place, watching this young woman as she stares at the destruction with devastation in her eyes.
I feel a certainty I haven't felt in years, maybe ever. The completely irrational thought forms before I can stop it: She's important. She matters in ways I don't understand yet.
I push the thought away. Still, I hear myself say, "We'll figure something out." The words hold a weight I hadn't intended.
The medical team approaches with a stretcher, and I step back, forcing myself to return to the professional distance I maintain with everyone. This attraction is dangerous. Inappropriate. She's barely out of college, for God's sake, and I'm forty with enough baggage to sink us both.
As they load her into the ambulance, our eyes meet again and I can’t look away.