Page 18 of The Flames Between Us

I try to focus, but my mind wanders. The physical techniques Everly taught me have been surprisingly effective. Twice since our last session, I've caught myself sliding into that cold, paralyzing feeling—once when thinking about Henderson, and once when the tones dropped for a structure fire that turned out to be a false alarm.

Both times, I was able to ground myself using her methods: focusing on physical sensations, controlling my breathing, distinguishing between memory and present reality.

It's not a cure. I still don't know if I'll be able to enter a burning building without freezing when the moment actually comes. But it's something—a tool I didn't have before meeting her.

After the briefing, I head to the equipment bay for my assigned checks. The routine is soothing—inspecting air tanks, testing pressure gauges, confirming that each piece of life-saving equipment is in perfect working order. This, at least, is straightforward.

"You okay?" Lewis asks, appearing beside me as I check off items on the inventory list. "You seemed distracted in there."

"I'm fine," I reply.

He raises an eyebrow, the expression so similar to our mother's it's almost eerie. "That's what you always say."

I sigh, setting down my clipboard. "What do you want me to say, Lewis? That I'm embarrassed about running into my therapist at Lou's? That I'm frustrated I'm still not cleared for full duty? That I'm tired of everyone walking on eggshells around me?"

"Yes," he says simply. "Any of that would be more honest than 'I'm fine.'"

He has a point, annoyingly enough. "Okay, yes to all of the above. And add confused to the list."

"About what?"

I hesitate, unsure how much to share even with my brother. "About whether the therapy is actually working or if I'm just getting better at pretending I'm okay."

Lewis considers this. "Well, from where I'm standing, there's improvement. A month ago, you wouldn't have gone to the highway extraction at all. Today, you were first to the vehicle."

"That's different," I protest. "There wasn't any fire."

"Risk is risk," he counters. "Point is, you're engaging instead of avoiding. That counts for something."

Before I can respond, the station alarm blares, followed by the automated dispatch voice: "Attention Station 3. Structure fire reported at 1427 Maple Street. Residential dwelling. Possible entrapment."

My heart rate spikes immediately, but I move toward the gear wall with everyone else, muscle memory taking over. As we suit up, Brock catches my eye across the bay.

"Crawford," he calls out. "You're on perimeter and support. Lewis and Grant will make entry if needed."

I nod, swallowing the protest that rises in my throat. It's the right call. I'm not cleared for interior operations, and a possible entrapment is no place to test whether my therapy is working.

The ride to the scene is tense, each of us mentally preparing for what's ahead. I focus on my breathing the way Everly taught me, grounding myself in the physical sensations of the moment—the vibration of the truck, the weight of my gear, the pressure of the seat beneath me.

When we arrive, smoke is already billowing from the second floor of a modest two-story home. A frantic woman in her sixties is being held back by a neighbor as she screams toward the house.

"My husband! He's still inside! Upstairs bathroom!"

I jump from the truck, joining Brock as he approaches the woman.

"Ma'am, I'm Chief Brock. Can you tell us exactly where your husband is and if anyone else is in the building?"

"Just Frank," she sobs. "He was in the shower when the smoke alarms went off. I was getting home from the market and tried to climb the stairs, but the smoke was too thick."

Brock turns to the team. "Lewis, primary search upstairs, focusing on the bathroom. Grant, get a line in through the front door. Max, ventilation. Ollis, establish water supply and assist Grant with the hose."

Everyone moves to their assignments. I connect the supply line to the nearest hydrant, then join Grant at the front of the house. The smoke is thicker now, rolling out the open front door in ominous black waves.

"Ready?" Grant asks, hefting the hose.

I nod, taking position behind him to support the line's weight as we approach the entrance. Heat radiates from the doorway, intensifying as we cross the threshold. Inside, visibility is poor, maybe three feet at best. The fire seems concentrated upstairs, but flames are starting to lick down the stairwell.

Grant advances the hose toward the stairs, and I follow, maintaining the line's integrity. Through our radios, I hear Lewis reporting he’s reached the second floor and is searching for the bathroom.

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