Page 4 of The Flames Between Us

"Everly," I interject.

He pauses. "What?"

"My patients usually call me Dr. Morgan, but in your case, I think Everly might work better. Less formal, less medical."

He looks at me with that assessing gaze again. "Why would you think I need special treatment?"

The question is a trap—if I say it's because he seems resistant to therapy, it will only reinforce his defenses. If I deny it's special treatment, I'd be lying.

"Not special treatment," I say carefully. "Just a different approach. You're here because your job requires it, not because you sought help for yourself. That creates a different dynamic."

Ollis doesn't respond immediately, weighing my words.

"Fine," he finally says. "Everly."

The way he says my name—like he's trying it on for size, not entirely comfortable with it—sends an unexpected heat wave through my chest. I redirect my focus to the notepad on my lap, though I've yet to write anything down.

"Let's talk about the Henderson fire," I say, looking up to gauge his reaction.

His entire body tenses, the openness from moments ago vanishing like a door slammed shut. "I'd rather not."

"I understand. But at some point, we'll need to discuss it if we're going to address what happened at Pineridge."

He looks away, his profile sharp against the afternoon light streaming through my office window. The silence stretches, and I let it. Pushing too hard too soon will only reinforce his resistance.

"Harold Henderson," he finally says, voice tight. "Eighty-two. Retired high school science teacher. Lived alone after his wife died last year."

The clinical detachment in his voice doesn't mask the pain underneath. I've heard this technique before—reciting facts to create distance from emotions.

"You knew him?" I ask gently.

Ollis shakes his head. "Not before. Learned about him after, from the papers. The obituary."

Another silence falls. I wait.

"We got the call at 2:17 AM," he continues suddenly. "Structure fire, possible entrapment. When we arrived, flames were already through the roof. Neighbors said Henderson was definitely inside."

His voice has taken on a mechanical quality as if he's giving an official report rather than recounting a traumatic experience.

"Lewis and I were first in. Visibility was poor, heat intense. We found him in the bedroom, conscious but disoriented. Lewis went to check the hallway while I was getting Henderson ready to move."

He stops abruptly, his breathing slightly elevated. I notice his right hand has curled into a fist on his thigh.

"That's when it happened?"

His eyes find mine, a flash of anger cutting through the practiced detachment. "You already know what happened. It's in the report Brock sent you."

I set my notepad aside completely. "I know what the report says. I'd like to hear your experience."

"My experience," he repeats, almost to himself. Then, with bitter precision: "My experience was watching a man die because I couldn't move."

This is the crux of it—not just the trauma of witnessing death, which every firefighter eventually faces, but the particular torture of believing you could have prevented it.

"The roof beam collapsed," I prompt softly.

"One minute Henderson was there, looking at me, and the next..." His voice drops to nearly a whisper. "I should have reached him. I was three feet away. But I just... stood there."

The self-loathing in his voice is palpable. I resist the urge to offer immediate reassurance, knowing it would ring hollow to him now.

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