Things You Save in a Fire(43)

He lifted his hands in innocence. “I know.”

“That’s on you, man. That’s all about you.”

“More than likely.”

“Maybe you’re the one who needs a hug, and you’re projecting that onto me.”

“It’s distinctly possible.”

Here is the deep-down truth that I would never admit: I did need a hug. I’d needed one all those weeks ago when Hernandez said it, and I’d needed one every day since. Not just one—a thousand. I would have given anything for the rookie to put his arms around me right then and wrap me up and let me stay like that till morning. I wanted him to. I wanted it so bad, my whole body ached for it to happen.

So, of course, the only response I could muster was to take a step away.

My whole life—everything I’d worked for—hung in the balance. This was not the moment to lose focus. Yes, he was warm, and kindhearted, and surprisingly empathetic, and shockingly good at cooking—but none of that was relevant. As I stood across from him, my brain started issuing alerts about all the disasters that would befall me—and my career, my stability, my carefully constructed sense of order, my sanity—if I didn’t get out of there, pronto.

I should have thanked him for the food. I should have said good night, at the very least. But I didn’t. I just pointed at him. “Do not hug me.”

He took a step back, too, and lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m not going to.”

We stood like that, facing off, for a minute. Then I took another step backwards. “Don’t ever talk to me about hugging again.”

He could tell he’d freaked me out—or insulted me, or something. He lifted his hands a little higher. “Okay.”

Another step back. “This”—I gestured down at my body—“is a no-hug zone.”

Now deeply regretting he ever brought it up: “Got it.”

“Stick me with all the needles you want, pal,” I said then. “But if you try to hug me? I will kick your rookie ass.”



* * *



A WEEK LATER, the guys pranked me by saying we were going to do ladder drills, convincing me to suit up in my bunker gear and climb onto the roof of the station to “show the rookie how it’s done.” This prank took a lot of planning, because our station didn’t even have a ladder truck.

They had to borrow one from Station Three.

I had a bad feeling, even as I climbed. Still, there it was: chain of command.

I got to the top and dismounted the ladder, and the guys drove away.

It was fine, I told myself. I hadn’t been pranked in a while. Worry if we don’t prank you.

I waved. I bowed. I let them have their moment.

I watched Case and Six-Pack steer the ladder truck off down the street to return it to its proper station, and I watched the rest of them strut back inside, arm in arm.

Finally, I turned and scouted out my new surroundings. I’d be here all night, for sure.

I checked out the views. I took some deep breaths. I told myself this was an opportunity to take some personal time, reflect on my life, and think all those deep thoughts I never had time for. They were doing me a favor, really.

When the sun was gone, I sat against a brick wall, leaned my head back, and closed my eyes, like I might fall asleep.

I wasn’t sleeping, exactly—but was definitely starting to drift—when I felt my hackles rise like there was somebody nearby, just as I heard a footstep right beside me.

I popped up like a jack-in-the-box, launched a serious, full-body kick, and didn’t realize until I was making impact with my foot that I was kicking the rookie.

He doubled over and hit the ground.

I dropped beside him. “Rookie! What the hell?”

I’d knocked the wind out of him. He was down on all fours.

It’s scary to get the wind knocked out of you. It means the impact was hard enough to scramble the nerve signals to your diaphragm. Needing to breathe but not being able to is never an easy feeling.

“Okay,” I said, switching from attacker to coach. “Straighten up.” I pushed his shoulders back to guide him. He let me. “Put your hands behind your head.”

He did it, and with that, his breathing came back.

“That’s right,” I said, breathing with him, watching his chest rise and fall. “In, then out.”

I knelt there next to him while his breathing normalized, keeping a hand on his back.

When he was ready to speak at last, he looked a little mad. “What the hell, Hanwell!”

I gave him a look like, What the hell, yourself! “You startled me.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” he said, like that mattered.

“I was fast asleep, pal,” I said. Okay, hardly fast asleep—but close enough. “What was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know,” he said, somehow annoyed and sarcastic and appealing all at once. “Maybe open your eyes and say, ‘Hey, rookie! Thanks for being awesome.’”

“What are you even doing here?” I asked.

He blinked for a second, like he thought we should already be clear on that. “I’m rescuing you,” he said. Then he gestured across the roof.

Sure enough, I could see the tip of the ladder pointing up over the edge of the roof, in the same spot as before.