Page 57 of Smoke Signals

He claps my shoulder. “You look different.”

“Insomnia’s a bitch.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

I ignore him, because there’s no way he thinks I look different from having a man. It’s a boyfriend, not a damn pregnancy glow.

My gear feels heavier when I lift it from the locker. Not physically. I run a hand over the helmet, checking the straps out of habit.

Captain Cole watches from across the bay, arms folded.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I’ll get you back on your old schedule, if that works for you.”

I nod. “That’ll work.”

The morning’s quiet so we roll hoses, play a game of poker and start talking about next week’s meal plan. The first tone drops just after nine.

Kitchen fire. Second floor apartment.

I’m already on my feet before the dispatcher finishes the address, crossing the bay while Phoenix grabs his helmet and Jake swings toward the medic unit, everyone falling into position without needing direction because we’ve done this together too many times to hesitate now.

Gear waits exactly where I left it; turnout pants stepped into in one practiced motion, suspenders pulled up, coat shrugged on while I walk, gloves shoved into pockets, helmet clipped and ready.

For a split second I register how natural it feels again.

I swing up into the truck and pull the door shut just as the engine roars alive beneath us. The bay doors crawl upward and daylight floods in, flashing across chrome and glass then we’re moving, siren wailing into the morning air.

Traffic parts slowly, reluctantly; Chicago drivers pretending they don’t see us until the last second. The siren vibrates through my ribs, a sound I know well enough that my breathing matches it. Buildings slide past in streaks of brick and steel, pedestrians turning their heads as we pass, radios crackling updates.

I check my straps again even though I know they’re secure, glove tightening around the rail as we take a corner too fast for comfort. Across from me Dark grins like he always does on the way to a call, adrenaline lighting him up.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I answer, and I mean it.

The address comes into view three blocks out, thin gray smoke pushing from a second floor window. We pull up hard at the curb. The engine company is already arriving behind us. Doors fly open, and the world shifts into noise and purpose all at once.

Boots hit pavement as commands from each rig get called out. Someone shuts off the gas at the exterior line while a neighbor waves frantically from the sidewalk. I grab my mask, pull it down, and follow Dark toward the building while the hose lines come alive behind us.

Inside smells like burned oil and overheated plastic, smoke hanging low along the ceiling. Visibility drops fast, but we're not blind. My body falls into pattern; scanning left, right, checking door frames, calling out as we move. Somewhere deeper inside a smoke detector screams nonstop.

Kitchen fire, contained mostly to the stove. Flames lick up one cabinet, angry but small.

“Water,” Dark calls.

The line comes through seconds later, steam erupting when it hits heat. I move automatically, clearing space, checking adjoining rooms, opening windows to vent smoke while the crew sets airflow. Every movement feels precise, efficient, like I never left.

An older woman coughs in the hallway, wrapped in a blanket. I guide her carefully toward fresh air, one hand steady at her elbow while she mutters apologies for burning breakfast.

“You’re okay,” I tell her. “That’s all that matters.”

Outside again, cold air hits my lungs hard enough to sting. Smoke drifts upward into the pale sky while neighbors gather to be the looky-lous. My helmet comes off and sweat cools instantly along my hairline.

Phoenix bumps my shoulder. “Second one back and you didn’t break anything.”