Page 21 of The Flames Between Us

She offers a reassuring smile. "Thank you for understanding. Now, you mentioned something happened that you wanted to discuss?"

The momentary tension dissolves as I focus on the real reason I've been looking forward to this session. "We had a call. Structure fire with entrapment. Older man trapped upstairs while I was working the hose line."

Everly leans forward slightly, her full attention on me. "Go on."

"A ceiling beam collapsed—similar to Henderson's, similar sound, similar circumstances," I explain. "And I felt it starting—that freezing response. The cold, the time slowing down. But this time, I used those grounding techniques you taught me. Focused on physical sensations, reminded myself where I actually was."

"And what happened?" she asks, though I think she already knows from my demeanor.

"It worked," I say, still somewhat amazed. "I pushed through it. Stayed present. Kept functioning."

The smile that spreads across her face is genuine, lighting her eyes behind those glasses. "Ollis, that's significant progress. How did you feel afterward?"

"Relieved. Surprised, honestly. I didn't think it would be that... immediate." I pause, organizing my thoughts. "It wasn't a complete test—I still wasn't the one entering the heart of the fire. But it was a situation that would have triggered me completely a few weeks ago."

"This is exactly the kind of incremental progress we hope for," she says. "You faced a trigger, applied the techniques, and experienced success. That creates a positive feedback loop for your nervous system—evidence that these traumatic memories don't have to control your responses."

Her enthusiasm is contagious, and I find myself smiling—a real smile, not the forced ones I've been offering the world lately.

"I need to emphasize that recovery isn't linear," she continues, tempering the celebration slightly. "You may still experience setbacks or find that different situations trigger different intensities of response. But this is clear evidence that the process is working."

"What's next?" I ask, suddenly eager for more tools, more progress. "How do we build on this?"

"Today I'd like to work on strengthening your narrative understanding of the trauma," she explains. "The physical grounding techniques address the body's alarm response, but we also need to help your mind make sense of what happened."

I shift uncomfortably. "You mean talk more about Henderson?"

"And Eva," she adds gently. "From what you've shared, these experiences are connected in your trauma response."

The mention of Eva's name still sends a dull ache through me, but it doesn't paralyze me the way it might have before. "Where do we start?"

"I'd like you to tell me Eva’s full story, from the moment you received the call to the aftermath," Everly says. "But this time, I want you to include not just what happened but what you were thinking and feeling throughout the experience."

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "It was June, eight years ago. Middle of a heatwave. We got the call around 10 PM—apartment fire in a complex downtown."

As I begin recounting the details, something shifts. Instead of the detached, report-style narration I've used before, I find myself including the sensory impressions, the emotions, the thoughts that raced through my mind that night.

I tell Everly about the suffocating heat of the summer night, intensified by the fire. About the chaotic scene when we arrived—half-naked residents gathered in the parking lot, some crying, some still in shock. About the information from bystanders that most residents were accounted for, except for a woman in apartment 3C.

"Lewis and I took the stairwell—elevator was already compromised," I continue. "Visibility was poor but not zero. We checked 3C first—empty, at least at first glance. But something told me to be thorough."

I pause, remembering the instinct that made me double-check the closets while Lewis moved on to adjacent units.

"The bedroom closet was packed with clothes, shoes, storage boxes. I almost missed her. She'd wedged herself into the corner, covered herself with clothes, stuffed towels along the bottom of the closet door." My voice grows quieter. "She thought she was protecting herself."

Everly nods, understanding the tragic misconception that led Eva to hide rather than flee.

"When I found her, she was unconscious but had a pulse. I radioed Lewis, started carrying her out." The memory is vivid now—Eva's weight in my arms, lighter than I expected, her dark hair falling across my arm as I navigated the increasingly smoke-filled hallway. "By the time I got her outside, she wasn't breathing. We started CPR immediately, paramedics took over, but..."

I trail off, the familiar sense of failure washing over me, though less intensely than before. "We later learned she had severe asthma. The smoke inhalation, combined with her pre-existing condition..."

"You did everything possible," Everly says quietly. "You found her when others might have missed her. You got her out quickly. You began life-saving measures immediately."

"But it wasn't enough," I finish.

"Sometimes it isn't," she acknowledges. "That's the hardest reality for people in your profession to accept. You can do everything right and still lose someone."

"We're trained for that possibility," I say. "We understand intellectually that we can't save everyone."

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