Page 55 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
“It seemed like it happened so fast and took forever all at the same time. I knocked a window out, and when I turned around, he was heading into the next room when we should have been getting the hell out because the fire was too damn hot. But that was Drew . . . selfless. Wanting to take care of others before he took care of himself. We got separated when a ceiling beam fell. Then another. And another. I couldn’t get to him, and he was trapped somehow. Then I heard his PASS alarm. He’d stopped moving. I went crazy trying to get to him, but then the roof collapsed on me.”
“Jesus, Grady.”
“There was no Jesus there that day. If there had been, he wouldn’t have taken Drew.”
There’s an understandable anger in his voice. The silence settles around us as I try to imagine the horror he endured. The fear. The helplessness. And I know that no matter what I imagine, the reality was a hundred times worse.
“The other day at the farmers’ market,” he continues, “that was his widow and their son. Shelby and Brody. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you . . . I just—sometimes it’s hard for me to talk about it. I think about it twenty-four seven, and we were having a nice time. I didn’t want to ruin it.”
“It’s okay.”
“Drew’s last words to me were to take care of Brody since he knew his son was going to lose his father.” I squeeze my hand where it is, words failing me as my eyes well with tears. “Do you know how hard it was hearing him say that and knowing he knew?”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Not more than I am.” I rub my thumb back and forth on his arm, accepting his comment for what it is—him and his guilt instead of a poor-me statement. “There are days I suit up and go to work . . . and, Christ, I don’t want to. But being a firefighter . . .”
“It’s not something you do, it’s something you are,” I murmur, knowing full well the commitment, the sacrifice, the selflessness, and selfishness that comes with the occupation.
“I was going to say something else, but that is definitely more accurate.” He sighs heavily. “The playroom? I couldn’t care less about the damn playroom, but I’m building it for Brody. So he has a place to go when he needs to remember his dad and hear stories about him from those who were his friends.”
My heart swells in my chest. And he calls Drew selfless? It sounds like he’s cut from the same cloth as his friend. There’s no use in pointing it out though, because he’ll just reject it anyway.
“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it as he grows older. It will help keep Drew’s memory alive.”
“Yeah, well . . . it’s the least I can do for him.” He runs a hand through his hair, my hand on his bicep shifting with the movement. “Everything is just fucked up, Dylan. All of it. In every sense of the word. I should have been able to save him. I should have been able to get to him.”
“You did everything you could. I wasn’t there, but I know you did.”
“It doesn’t matter because it wasn’t good enough. I didn’t fulfill my promise to him. There was no two-in, two-out.”
More silence smothers the room, but I give him a moment because I sense he needs it right now. I leave my hand where it is and close my eyes, freeing a tear that I’m sure he would hate that I’ve shed.
“There are cuts . . .” I say and cringe.
“The skin in some parts is thin. Some of the grafts aren’t as thick as my natural skin is. Other parts are stretched so tight that when I do something that isn’t typical—”
“Like punching someone.”
“Like punching someone.” He chuckles. “The skin tears. I don’t always notice it. I don’t always feel it. But it happens like it did last night.”
“Do they hurt?” I ask while he’s talking.
“Some spots always hurt. Others have no feeling at all. Supposedly, there will come a time when the pigment will lighten or I’ll gain some elasticity . . . but there’s no determining what scar tissue will or won’t do, so only time will tell.”
“I mean this in the nicest of ways, but they are fascinating to look at.”
He laughs. “That’s a first.”
“No, I’m serious.” I shake my head while mentally kicking myself for speaking my thoughts aloud. “I mean, of course, they look painful, but they’re also a roadmap of where you’ve been and where you’re going.”
“Dylan—”
“No. Hear me out. We all have scars. Some are visible. Some aren’t. In the end, they represent the fact that you’re stronger now than whatever tried to hurt you. For you, it just means that you’re stronger than the fire.”
There’s a weight to his silence, making me feel as if maybe I’ve overstepped.
“You’re the first person I’ve met who isn’t repulsed by them.” His voice is solemn, and I wish he’d turn so I can see his eyes. So he can see mine.
