Page 19 of Christmas with Three Firemen

Chapter Four: Wes

In a perfect world, the city allows us to catch our breath for at least a few hours after a particularly intense response. It’s not that we necessarily need the time to recover—we’re trained to be ready no matter what—but it is helpful to have the opportunity to get our gear and equipment back in order before we have to reach for it again.

Alas, this is not a perfect world. I learned that a long time ago, less than a month into my first deployment to the Middle East.

So, basically, when the firehouse alarm goes off at forty-seven minutes past midnight and the taste of ash from the apartment fire earlier that day is still stuck on my tongue, I allow myself exactly half a second of surprise before I’m in action.

I’m already awake, despite having told the guys that I was going to try to doze for a couple of hours.

My brain has other plans tonight, anyway. It keeps circling back to the apartment fire — not the part where we knocked it down, but the ten minutes after, when Cap went still in a way I’ve never once seen him go still, and Meadows didn’t back down an inch. Nobody’s said a word about it since we rolled back in, which is usually how I know something actually happened.

One second, I’m lying on a bunk staring at the underside of the mattress above me, listening to the old historic building settle around us in the deepening winter chill, and the next second I’m on my feet. I barely even register rushing downstairs, switching automatically to the mode where I operate purely on instinct. I throw on my gear side-by-side with my crew. Boots, pants, jacket, helmet.

They don’t tell you this, but routine is what saves lives. Not bravery or raw instinct, but dedicated practice and reliable repetition.

The station moves in what can only be described as well-ordered chaos. Doors slam, radios crackle, and Mateo swears loudly when he smacks his head leaping into the front seat of the engine with a little too much gusto.

That, too, is part of the routine.

And, as usual, Cap’s voice cuts through it all, calm and steady.

We follow the sound of it out into the night.

Snow drifts down beneath the glow of streetlights as Engine 2 pulls out of the station. For some reason, perhaps because of a strange awareness prickling on the back of my neck, I glance up toward the building as we sail down the street.

A light glows faintly from one of the windows on the second floor. The one that belongs to Noelle’s room. Not because I’ve been making a habit out of watching her, but because being fully aware of my surroundings and the people in my periphery is part of my routine.

She’s still awake, and somehow I know it’s not because she was roused from bed by the alarms. Just like the other night, the insomniac in me recognizes the same within her.

But there’s no time to dwell on the redheaded woman with pretty eyes right now. I have a job to do.

***

Two hours after the alarm sounded, we return to the station.

Thankfully, the call wasn’t a catastrophic event. An elderly man called about a broken radiator that was spitting scalding water and pouring clouds of foul steam into his apartment. Really, we only needed an hour or so to secure the scene, but then the man started complaining of chest pains and we had to get EMS engaged before we could determine it was okay to head back.

All is well now, though.

By the time we roll back into the bay, it’s nearly three in the morning.

Everyone moves a little bit slower than they would in the daytime, but this is also part of the expected routine, so Cap doesn’t bother growling about it. Adrenaline fades differently for firefighters. Some get louder while others need a moment of quiet.

Mateo talks loudly through his reports with dispatch, voice carrying down the hallway. Meanwhile, Grant disappears into his office almost immediately.

I start checking and reorganizing the equipment. My shift ends in four hours, so there’s no point in trying to rest now.

Routine. Always routine.

But then I think about her. The light in her window. A subtle switch flips inside me. The protective instinct I’ve always had takes over, and I break routine. Slipping away from the bleary-eyed crew, I make my way up to the mezzanine.

Except, I’m only halfway down the hall when I see that the door to her private room is hanging open, nothing but darkness coming from within. I drift by, stealing a glance as politely as I can, and confirm that the room is empty.

That old instinct has me moving further down the hall, then up to the third floor.

Sure enough, the roof access door is cracked open.

I stare at it for several seconds. Not because it’s cause for concern, but because I am still always a little surprised by how precise my gut feelings can be.