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He smiles wide, and for a moment, he looks five years younger than the twenty-year-old man he is. “Thank you, Lieutenant. That means a lot.”

“You too, Cinder.” I nod toward the other probie. “Great job.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Pauly walks up behind us. “Now, the two of you need to get your asses in the kitchen and make us some grub. I’m starving.”

One of the probies’s responsibilities is making the meals, a task that Pauly D. never lets them forget.

Tiny and his mammoth form hops down from the truck. “Me too. Was it just me, or was that last call exhausting? I could eat a horse.”

“I’ve never understood that saying because we don’t eat horses. How about I could eat a cow? A ribeye, a sirloin, or a brisket. That makes more sense. Am I right?” Fly Guy unzips his turnout coat just as the overhead buzzer sounds.

“Aw, fuck,” Pauly grumbles.

The call center makes an announcement over the PA system, “Truck 12, Squad 6, and Ambulance 21. Five-alarm factory fire 619 Sixth Ave.”

“That’s the old shoe factory,” Stokes says from the driver’s seat.

“Sure is,” I say.

Fly Guy zips his coat back up. “Five alarm. That’s a big one.”

“We’re never eating.” Tiny sighs, jumping back into the truck.

“It’s going to be one of those days, boys. Let’s go!” I say, closing the front passenger door. In my haste to get in the truck, I forgot to slap our emblem for good luck. As Stokes pulls onto the street, I realize it’s too late for that now.

“So what’s on the menu when we get back?” Pauly asks the probies from the back seat of the truck.

Cinder answers. “We were thinking spaghetti.”

“Like my Nona’s type of spaghetti, or are you talking Ragu?” Pauly barks out.

“Ragu,” Snow answers in a sheepish tone.

“Hell no. Do better,” Pauly warns. “You have the duration of this call to develop a much more appetizing plan B. Understood?” He turns to Deacon. “Ragu?” he scoffs. “Are you hearing these guys?”

Deacon shakes his head with a laugh. “I mean, it’s better than a horse.”

“My point exactly.” Fly Guy chuckles. “No one eats horses.”

The truck pulls to a stop in the parking lot of the old factory. We aren’t the first on scene. The place is already swarming with firefighters, police officers, and paramedics.

“Everyone be careful out there today,” I say before exiting the truck.

Cap is out of his SUV talking over the handheld radio.

“Word is that there’s an entire tent city of people in there. Many civilians still alive inside and waiting evac on north and west sides,” he says as we both turn toward the factory that appears to be completely engulfed in flames.

“Not for much longer.” I furrow my brow.

“Yeah, you have to hurry.” Cap nods.

“Alright guys, let’s head to the west wing of the building, and check there first,” I say before Derek Borgess, the lieutenant for thirty-two cuts in.

“My guys are already there,” he argues. “Maybe show up on time for once.”

“We were on another call, saving a baby!” Pauly yells, puffing his chest.

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