Page 43 of Honeyfires

"Most things here are."

She turned to look at me, blue eyes bright in the afternoon rays of light. "How often do you take it out?"

"Depends on the season. Pre-season, twice a week for training. Come June, we could have multiple runs a day." I reached for the bag. "Come on. Meet the crew first."

"In a minute." She hadn't moved. She was looking at the Bell 212 with that librarian look, the one that meant something had her complete attention and was not going to be released until she'd understood it properly. "Does it have a name?"

"The helicopter?"

"People name things. Your motorcycle has the flames, and I've been calling it Cinder in my head for weeks. Does the helicopter have a name?"

"The crew calls her La Jefa."

Vera blinked. "The Boss?"

"Rodriguez named her twenty years ago. Nobody's changed it."

She looked at the helicopter. Then at me. Then back at the helicopter. "I like her already," she said, and let me steer her toward the apparatus bay.

Every head in the bay turned the moment we walked through the door.

I'd warned them in the group chat that morning.

Bringing Vera today. Behave yourselves.

The responses had ranged from enthusiastic (Stevens, three exclamation points and an emoji I didn't recognize) to cryptic (Miller, who had simply replied noted, which from Miller meant he had opinions he was saving for the room) to genuinely threatening (Jackson, who had replied I'm going to tell her everything, and when I'd typed back you absolutely will not, had sent a single thumbs-up that I did not trust at all).

Stevens emerged from somewhere near the engine with the energy of a golden retriever who has heard the word "treat." He was twenty-three, broad-grinned, and still operating on the general assumption that the universe was fundamentally going to work out for him. He stuck his hand out. "Brandon Stevens. Rookie. Alves makes me do all the worst jobs, but I learn an extraordinary amount from the experience."

"Vera Montgomery." She shook it. "She mentioned you."

He puffed up like a cartoon rooster. "Good things, I hope?"

"She said you once got tangled in your own hose line twenty feet from a structure fire and tried to blame smoke inhalation."

Stevens deflated. He looked at me. "You told her that?"

"It came up organically."

"How does that come up organically—"

"In the context of discussing the importance of spatial awareness under pressure."

"That's not a context—"

"Spatial awareness, Stevens."

He turned back to Vera with the wounded dignity of someone who had been betrayed but was going to maintain his composure. "For the record, the smoke was genuinely impairing. I've grown a lot since then."

"I'm sure you have," she said, in the tone she probably used on the seven-year-old who checked out volcano books, and Stevens looked so grateful it was almost sad.

Jackson materialized on my other side like he'd been stationed and waiting. He slung an arm around my shoulders. "I'm Jackson. I'm the handsome one."

"You're the one who said you'd tell her everything," I said accusingly.

"I'm the one who keeps morale up." He smiled at Vera, ignoring me. "She keeps us alive. Whole different skill set."

"Every workplace needs both," Vera agreed, very seriously.