Page 3 of The Flames Between Us

"Please, make yourself comfortable," she says, gesturing to a small seating area by the window.

I take the chair that most likely supports my frame without complaint and watch as she settles into the one across from me. There's no desk between us, no barrier: just two chairs and the weight of everything I don't want to say hanging in the air.

Dr. Morgan stares at me for a moment, her expression giving away nothing. Then she smiles—not the fake, professional smile I was braced for, but something genuine that reaches her eyes.

"So, Ollis," she says, my name sounding different in her mouth. "Chief Brock tells me you're here under protest. Why don't we start there?"

Chapter 2 - Everly

He's more muscular than I expected. The file Chief Brock sent over mentioned Ollis Crawford was a forty-year-old veteran firefighter. Still, it didn't prepare me for the sheer physical presence of the man now occupying my consultation chair.

His shoulders strain against the simple blue button-down he's wearing, and I notice calluses on his hands as he grips the armrests—working hands, hands that have pulled people from danger.

"Under protest is putting it mildly," he replies, his voice low and gravelly. There's an undercurrent of controlled anger there, but it's not directed at me personally. Not yet, anyway.

I cross my legs and adjust my glasses, allowing the silence to settle between us. I've learned that these first moments tell me more about a patient than any intake form ever could. Ollis Crawford sits rigidly as if the chair might collapse under him if he fully relaxes.

His eyes—a surprising shade of hazel that leans green in the afternoon light—scan my office methodically, noting exits, windows, potential hazards. It's the hypervigilance common to first responders, particularly those with trauma.

"That's fair," I say finally. "Most people don't exactly volunteer for therapy. Especially when it's tied to their employment."

He gives me a look of mild surprise. Perhaps he was expecting me to argue or try to convince him of therapy's benefits right away.

"Let's establish some ground rules," I continue. "I'm not here to 'fix' you or force you to talk about anything you're not ready to discuss. My job is to provide a space where you can process what you're experiencing without judgment."

"With all due respect, Dr. Morgan, that sounds like therapist bullshit. We both know I'm here because I froze at the Henderson fire and again at Pineridge. Chief Brock wants me cleared for full duty or out the door."

I appreciate his directness, if not his language. "That's the situation, yes. But how we approach it is up to us."

"There is no 'us,'" he says flatly.

I can't help the small smile that forms. "In this room, for this hour, there is. And I should clarify—I don't report the details of our sessions to Chief Brock. I'll eventually provide a professional assessment of your readiness to return to full duty, but what you say here stays here."

He doesn't look convinced. My gaze drops momentarily to his hands—they've shifted from gripping the armrests to resting on his thighs, but the tension in his knuckles tells me he's still bracing himself.

"Why don't we start with something simple?" I suggest. "Tell me about your day before coming here."

Ollis gives me a look that clearly says he finds nothing simple about this request, but after a moment, he sighs. "Went for a run. Fixed a leaky faucet. Considered not showing up."

"But you did show up," I point out. "Despite your reservations."

"I like my job," he says flatly. "If this is what it takes to keep it, I'll sit here and talk."

I make a mental note of the distinction—he's willing to talk, not necessarily to engage with the therapeutic process. It's a starting point.

"How long have you been with Cedar Falls Fire Department?" I ask, though I already know from his file.

"Fifteen years. Started when I was twenty-five."

"That's quite a commitment. What drew you to firefighting?"

For the first time, something softens in his expression. It's subtle—a slight release of tension around his eyes, a barely perceptible shift in posture.

"When I was ten, our garage caught fire. My dog was trapped inside." His gaze drifts toward the window. "The firefighters who responded didn't just put out the flames. They found my dog and administered oxygen to her. One of them sat with me for an hour afterward, explaining everything they were doing."

I nod, seeing the connection. "You wanted to be that person for someone else."

"Something like that." He straightens as if catching himself revealing too much. "Look, Dr. Morgan—"

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