Page 34 of Second Alarm
"That was close."
"It was close."
"Roof's going," Cal says.
"Yeah."
"Twenty minutes, roof's going."
"Aiden's going to pull the attack, I think."
"Yeah."
We stand there together. We breathe.
Over at the ambulance, Hanna has the little girl on the gurney and on oxygen. Hanna is talking to her and the girl isnodding. She isn't crying. Kids sometimes don't cry after. Kids freeze. Hanna is talking to her anyway, in the voice that every good paramedic has — the voice that saysI'm not scared, and therefore you don't have to be scared either— and the girl is buying it. The girl's shoulders are coming down, and her breathing is getting better.
I watch her work.
I don't make the mistake of watching too long. I have a minute, at most. I use the minute.
Gemma is on the boy. He’s small and has a little bit of a burn on his forearm, not bad, already blistered along the outside. Gemma is doing what Gemma does. I have learned, over the course of the last six months, that Gemma Lockhart is one of the warmest human beings I've ever worked alongside. She and Hanna are going to be a devastating medic team, and right now she's making the five-year-old boy laugh by doing something with her gloves that I can't see, and the boy is laughing, which is a medical event.
Beck comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder — a quiet hand; Beck isn't a clapper.
"Nice work, Brennan."
"Yes, sir. Larsen ready to transport?"
"She's got them stable." He tilts his chin toward the rig. "Tell her she can roll when she's ready. I want both kids and the mom at Copper Ridge Regional. I'll call it in."
"Yes, sir." I walk to Hanna.
"Ready to roll?"
"Ready to roll," Hanna says.
Her eyes meet mine for the second time that morning. Her eyes are steady. Her eyes have done the thing they always did at the academy after a hard call, which is to come up just a little extra bright, like there's a current running behind them, and it used to scare the hell out of me at twenty-three because I didn'tknow what to do with a woman whose adrenaline went to her face, and at thirty-three I know what to do with it, which is file it, permanently, for later, because there's no other option right now.
"Hey."
"Yeah."
"You good."
"I'm good."
"Those kids — "
"Yeah."
"Yeah." She holds my gaze for one beat. "Take them in. I'll see you back at the station."
"Okay."
She closes the ambulance door. Gemma climbs in the back with her. The rig rolls out. The sirens start. I stand there for half a second longer than I need to.
"Brennan." Rivera, at my shoulder, because Rivera always materializes exactly when I need to be moved from a sight line. "Roll up. We gotta pull line."
