Page 35 of Second Alarm
"Yep."
"Brennan."
"I said yep."
I spend the next two hours in overhaul, pulling ceiling, looking for hot spots. Cal works beside me, hands me things, periodically says "Hell of a thing," and I say "Yeah." Aiden comes by: "Nice entry, gentlemen." Cal says Brennan was right hand; Aiden says he saw, he was on the radio, he knows — Cal says he's sharing credit, Aiden says no he's not but it's sweet he's trying, and we all laugh, the post-call laugh, the bad laugh that's your body letting go of the adrenaline by noise.
We get back to the station.
Hanna's rig is in the bay. She's on the rig floor with a rag and a bucket, because Beck, bless him, has seen the look on her faceand on Gemma's face and has assigned both of them decon duty, which is the mindless, meditative physical work of getting smoke and child vomit off the interior of an ambulance, and he's done it because Beck understands that sometimes, after a call, your body needs to wash something with its hands for forty minutes so your brain can stop seeing two kids in a closet.
I walk past the bay. I don't go in. I go to the kitchen. I pour three cups of coffee — black, black, and black — and carry them to the bay. Gemma is up at the passenger door with a bottle of spray. Hanna is in the jump seat wiping the seat divider. She looks up when she hears the boots.
"I didn't ask," I say.
"I know." She takes the cup.
Gemma glances over and reaches for one of the other cups. She looks at me with those bright, shrewd eyes of hers. "Thanks, Brennan."
"Welcome."
Gemma goes back to her spray bottle and doesn't say anything else.
"Those kids," I say. "They're okay?"
"They're fine. Both of them. The girl had some mild smoke inhalation, I got her oxygenated, she was alert and oriented the whole way. Little boy's burn was superficial. Mom's going to need a therapist. They're all going home tomorrow."
"Good."
"Yeah."
"Good call, Larsen."
"Good entry, Brennan." The corner of her mouth lifts, just barely.
We look at each other. A half second is all we have before Cal comes clanking through the bay door with his own coffee and his own face. "I got two bags of Cheetos for the decon — you two want any?"
"Cal — "
"They're hot Cheetos."
"Cal, we don't — "
"I already opened the bag."
"Cal."
Hanna holds out her hand. "I'll take a few."
Cal squats down next to his sister on the floor of the ambulance and dumps Cheetos into her hand. "You did good today."
"I did okay. Brennan got there first."
"Brennan always gets there first," Gemma says, appearing from the passenger side.
Cal crams a handful of Cheetos into his mouth. He chews. He looks at his sister. He looks at me. "You two work pretty well together," he says, mouth full.
Her coffee cup is halfway to her mouth. "Muscle memory," Hanna says, casually. "You work a scene the same way I was trained to work it."
