Page 2 of The Flames Between Us

I stare at the card but don't pick it up. "And if I refuse?"

"Then I have to make some hard decisions about your future with this department." There's no malice in his tone, just the weight of command. "You've used up all your personal leave. Workers' comp only stretches so far for psychological issues."

The unspoken ultimatum hangs between us. See the shrink or clean out my locker.

"This isn't a punishment, Ollis," Brock continues. "It's me trying to save the career of a damn good firefighter."

I finally take the card, the embossed lettering catching the light. Dr. Everly Morgan, PhD. Trauma and Resilience Specialist.

"One session," I concede, though we both know it's not a negotiation. "But I'm not promising anything."

"Just show up and be honest. That's all I'm asking." Brock stands, signaling the end of our conversation. "And Ollis? She's good at what she does. Give her a chance."

I pocket the card and leave without another word, anger and humiliation burning in my gut. Fifteen years of running into burning buildings, of saving lives, of being the guy everyone could count on—and now I'm being sent to have my head examined like some fragile thing that's broken.

My shift ends at 6 PM, and I drive home in silence, the radio off. My house is on the outskirts of Cedar Falls, a small ranch-style place I bought five years ago. Nothing fancy, but it's mine. No wife to explain myself to. No kids to put on a brave face for. Just me and the ghosts I bring home with me.

I toss my keys on the counter and grab a beer from the fridge, popping the cap against the edge of the countertop. The house is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of my neighbor's dog barking. I should eat something, but the thought of food turns my stomach. Instead, I take my beer to the back deck and stare out at the treeline behind my property.

My phone buzzes with a text from my brother. Lewis is five years younger but seems decades ahead in having his life together.

*You ok? Heard Brock pulled you in.*

I type back: *All good. Just the usual check-in.*

Another lie to add to the collection. The truth is, I haven't been "all good" since I watched Harold Henderson disappear under a collapsing ceiling beam while I stood frozen in the doorway, paralyzed by the memory of another fire, another failure.

The moon is nearly full tonight, casting long shadows across the yard. I used to find peace in these quiet moments. Now they just give my mind too much space to wander back to that night. To Henderson's face at the window. To the sound of timber cracking. To the paralysis that took over my body when I needed to move most.

I drain the beer and head inside, straight to the shower where I stand under water hot enough to scald until my skin turns red. Sleep doesn't come easy these days, but physical exhaustion helps. I stretch out on my bed and stare at the ceiling, Dr. Morgan's card on the nightstand catching the dim light from the window.

The Next Day

Morning comes too soon. I go for a run, pushing myself harder than usual as if I could somehow outpace the appointment looming in the afternoon. Back home, I kill time with meaningless chores—mowing the lawn, fixing a leaky faucet, reorganizing tools I haven't touched in months.

At 1:30, I finally force myself into my truck. The drive to Dr. Morgan's office downtown takes fifteen minutes, but I circle the block twice before finding a parking spot. Then I sit, engine off, debating whether I should just call Brock and tell him I'm done. Hand in my resignation and find something else to do with my life.

But firefighting is all I know. All I've ever wanted to do since I was ten years old, and a crew of heroes pulled my dog from our burning garage.

At 1:58, I finally make myself walk through the door and up to the second floor. The waiting area is exactly as I expected—plants, soft lighting, furniture that looks more stylish than comfortable. A young man at the reception desk glances up with a practiced smile.

"Can I help you?"

"Ollis Crawford. I have an appointment with Dr. Morgan." The words taste like ash in my mouth.

"Of course. She's just finishing up with another client. Please have a seat. Can I offer you water or tea?"

I decline and take the chair farthest from the door, instantly calculating the exit routes out of habit. The waiting room has those mindless magazines no one actually reads and a white noise machine humming softly in the corner. I check my watch every thirty seconds, wondering how long I need to sit here before I can tell Brock I tried.

At 2:07, a door opens and a woman emerges, wiping discreetly at her eyes. Behind her stands someone who must be Dr. Morgan, though she's nothing like the stern, middle-aged psychiatrist I was expecting.

She's younger than me by several years, with dark hair pulled back in a loose knot and glasses that frame eyes that miss nothing. Her figure is soft and curved beneath a simple burgundy dress and cardigan. There's no clipboard, no clinical white coat—nothing that screams "I'm here to dissect your trauma."

"Mr. Crawford?" Her voice is low and melodic, with the slightest hint of an accent I can't place. "I'm Dr. Morgan. Please come in."

I stand, suddenly awkward in my own skin, aware of my height and bulk in this delicate space. As I approach, I notice she's shorter than I initially thought, the top of her head barely reaching my shoulder.

She steps aside to let me enter her office, and I catch a faint scent of something citrusy and warm—not the antiseptic smell I associate with doctors' offices.

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