Things You Save in a Fire(84)

“Nothing’s going in,” he reported. “No movement.”

“Tube him,” I ordered, and he turned to find an airway kit.

But I stopped him. I handed him the antidote IV bag. “Hold this.”

“I have to tube him!” he protested.

“I’ve got it!”

He stepped back, and I pulled out a pediatric airway kit. If the rookie’s airway was burned, it could be swollen, and it’s hard enough to intubate a normal airway.

The medic on top of him was still working his chest.

Others had removed Owen’s bunker pants and were wrapping his lower half in a cold gel blanket to try to bring down his body temperature.

In my memory, this whole scene always replays itself in slow motion. I can see every detail, hear every word, stretched out and slowed down. In reality, it lasted barely a few minutes, and everything happened at once.

I stepped in, tilted the rookie’s neck just right, started working the tube.

I heard Life Flight arrive, but I stayed focused.

The medic doing compressions kept his eye on me. “Come on, come on,” he whispered.

It’s hard enough intubating people—without the added pressure of it being another firefighter, a guy with your same job. A guy you know.

And if you happen to have slept with the person you’re trying to tube? Even harder.

Anybody could find it freaky.

Fortunately for the rookie, I’m not anybody.

I eased the tube in like a pro. Three seconds flat.

I told you. You just know when you’re good.

Another medic was listening with a stethoscope. “We’ve got air,” he called out, just as Life Flight settled to the ground in the parking lot beside us.

With the air came the heartbeat.

“We’ve got a rhythm,” the medic with the stethoscope called next.

It was only a short distance to the Trauma Hawk, and we all pushed the gurney toward the Life Flight crew. They took it like a baton in a relay, and we followed, shouting stats and information about his situation—explaining the cyanide poisoning and antidote protocol, handing off the IV bag, making sure they knew everything.

As they loaded him up in the chopper, I took one second to find Owen’s hand and give it a squeeze.

And then I had no choice but to let him go.





Twenty-six


LIFE FLIGHT TOOK Owen to Boston, and all I wanted to do was follow.

But there was still a fire to put out.

Our shift wasn’t over.

The medics from Station Three treated DeStasio, who turned out to have a broken collarbone, and transported him to Fairmont Methodist. I was fine, and once they cleared me, I got back to work.

We still had a job to do.

No one else on our shift was injured. On the other side of the building, separated by that concrete wall and a faulty radio, the rest of our guys had followed the captain’s orders, which had never changed: No internal operations.

It took four hours to put out the fire, even with crews from Gloucester and Essex pitching in. When it was out, there was still overhaul to do—making sure no pockets were still burning, and securing the site.

We were still on shift, after all.

Once word got out we had injured crew members, off-duty crews started showing up at the scene and then, later, at the station. That’s what firefighters do. They show up. They offer relief. They look after each other. They help.

We got back to the station around four in the afternoon and found a makeup relief shift waiting for us. We couldn’t have left to go home, or check on Owen or DeStasio, if they hadn’t shown up.

I’ve never been more grateful to see anyone in my life.

Gray with soot, caked with salt and sweat, I knew that as soon as the adrenaline wore off, I’d collapse. There’s nothing on this earth more exhausting than a big fire. Every foot of hose weighs eight pounds when it’s full of water. We’d hauled 250 feet of hose that day, working the flames, feeding the line. No CrossFit regime or “fireman’s workout” can even compare to what you’re really doing when you work a fire. You come back blistered, chafed, and dehydrated from the inside out—with your shoulders, back, hands, and basically every cell in your body stinging and aching.

At first you barely feel it. Adrenaline distracts you.

Then it hits.

Despite it all, after we got off shift, all the guys were heading to Boston to check on Owen. The chief and the captain were already there—had gone straight from the scene. I headed toward my truck a few steps ahead of the guys, but Tiny and Six-Pack followed me and climbed in the passenger side without even asking.

We drove in silence. The sky drizzled rain the whole way, and I remember thinking how strangely loud the wipers sounded. I’d never noticed how loud they were before.

The captain had sent group texts to our entire shift several times with updates, but they were vague: The rookie’s heart rate and breathing had stabilized, but he had a collapsed lung. They were keeping him in a medically induced coma for the foreseeable future. They were going to treat him in the hyperbaric chamber and then take him to the ICU.

My brain jolted around from thought to thought. I’d see the rookie, sleeping safe and alive in my bed, and then the channel would skip to his melted mask and his smoking gear. I’d feel the memory of his mouth on mine, and then I’d flip to the moment when I tubed him. When panic threatened to freeze my chest, I’d focus on the good signs. “We’ve got air,” the medic had said.