Page 21 of Single Mom's Firefighter SEALs
The radio squawks again. “Additional caller advises fire has extended. One person may have attempted entry. Law enforcement en route.”
Attempted entry.
Another barrage of images:dark road. Headlights. A truck, one of theirs, the door open. Somebody going back. Gunfire sparking off metal.
Then the blast. Then flame.
“Calder.” It’s Buck this time.
I blink, and the bay comes back into focus. Weston’s in front of me, suspenders up, jacket half on. Buck’s a few feet away with his radio in hand.
Neither of them looks surprised, and thatmakes it worse.
As soon as I get one arm in the coat, my lungs forget how to work for one long, useless second.
Buck comes closer. “Look at me.” His voice is flat and unhurried. “Engine’s ours,” he says. “You’re not on nozzle. You ride in and run medical unless I tell you otherwise.”
“I’ve got attack,” Weston calls out as he moves past us.
Buck clips the radio to his coat. “I’ve got command till the next unit gets here.”
There’s no discussion, not even a questioning glance between them, as they make adjustments that would be invisible to anyone else.
I swallow once. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” Buck says. “Let’s move.”
I get the rest of my gear in place and climb into the engine. Weston drives, Buck takes the officer seat, and I sit behind them with the med bag between my boots.
The siren engages, and my molars lock together so hard my jaw starts to ache. I keep one hand wrapped around the grab bar as snowbanks, fence posts, and bare trees blur at the edges of my vision. The route should ground me, but instead I see sparks lifting in black air.
A bump in the road feels like rough terrain on another continent, another night, in another vehicle.
There’s a body on the ground that I don’t let myself look at for long, not even in memory.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s still there.
I haven’t thought about that night for months. That’s the lie I tell myself, even though I think about it every day. I usually keep those pieces where they belong, but Tyler’s widow is here now, and her son looked at me with Tyler’s eyes.
Then someone started a fire in her house while she was asleep.
Buck’s saying my name. “You with me?” he asks, when I lift my head.
“Yes.”
He turns to face me. “Tell me what you’re carrying.”
I look down automatically. The med bag, usually Weston’s, between my boots. Jump bag strapped in, airway kit clipped on, burn sheets in the outer pouch. O2 secured.
After a couple of seconds, my mouth works. “Trauma bag. Airway. Burns.”
Buck nods and turns back around.
Weston takes the curve onto County Road 9 fast, but smooth enough to keep the rig balanced. “Smoke showing,” he says.
Buck leans forward to look through the windshield. “Copy.”
A column of dark smoke rises behind a line of trees, its size fitting the dispatch report. It’s not large, but it’s still enough to trigger a hard pulse behind my eyes.
