Page 5 of The Flames Between Us

"What were you experiencing in that moment?" I ask instead. "Physically, I mean."

He looks up, perhaps surprised by the question. "What does it matter?"

"Trauma responses are physical as much as psychological. Your body reacts before your conscious mind can process what's happening."

Ollis considers this. "It felt like..." He searches for words. "Like I was underwater. Everything slowed down. My legs wouldn't move. Couldn't breathe right."

"Classic parasympathetic nervous system response," I explain. "When we're faced with overwhelming danger, sometimes our bodies freeze as a survival mechanism. It's not a character flaw or a choice—it's biology."

"Tell that to Henderson," he says darkly.

"I know it doesn't change what happened," I acknowledge. "But understanding that your response wasn't a personal failure might help you work through it."

The clock on my wall shows we've been talking for nearly forty minutes. Ollis has given me more than I expected for a first session, especially one he entered so reluctantly.

"Our time is almost up," I say. "But I'd like to offer something to consider before our next meeting."

His eyebrows lift slightly. "Next meeting?"

"Unless you've decided one session is enough to get Chief Brock off your back?"

The ghost of a smile touches his lips—so briefly I almost miss it. "Point taken."

"Trauma doesn't just affect how we think—it lives in our bodies," I explain. "Before our next session, I'd like you to pay attention to physical responses when memories of the fire surface. Where do you feel tension? Does your breathing change? Are there places that seem to hold the memory?"

He looks skeptical. "And this helps how, exactly?"

"Awareness is the first step to regaining control," I say simply. "Right now, your body is reacting without your permission. Noticing those reactions gives you a chance to interrupt the pattern."

Ollis stands, unfolding his substantial frame from my consultation chair. Standing, the size difference between us is even more apparent—I'm five-foot-four in my most optimistic moments, and he must be at least six-two.

"Same time next week?" I ask, rising as well.

He hesitates, and I can almost see him weighing his options. Finally, he nods. "Same time."

I walk him to the door, maintaining professional distance despite an unexpected impulse to touch his arm reassuringly. At the threshold, he turns.

"You're not what I expected," he says abruptly.

I tilt my head slightly. "What did you expect?"

"Someone older. More..." He gestures vaguely. "Clinical."

"Disappointed?" I ask, allowing a hint of humor into my voice.

That almost-smile returns, lingering a moment longer this time. "Not exactly the word I'd use."

After he leaves, I return to my desk and finally begin my notes. On paper, I record the clinical observations—the patient presents with symptoms consistent with PTSD following work-related trauma, experiences flashbacks triggered by similar environmental conditions, and exhibits avoidance behaviors.

But in my mind, I'm noting other things. The way his eyes softened when he spoke about his dog. The careful control he maintains over his emotions. The momentary vulnerability when he admitted to freezing. The strength it took for someone like Ollis Crawford to walk through my door at all.

I'm still writing when my receptionist knocks, reminding me of my next appointment. I close Ollis's file, but thoughts of him linger as I prepare to meet my next client.

This case will be challenging—not just because of the nature of his trauma or his reluctance to engage with therapy, but because something about Ollis Crawford resonates with me in a way that feels uncomfortably personal. Perhaps it's the shared experience of feeling responsible for outcomes beyond our control, or maybe it's something more elemental I can't yet name.

Either way, I need to be careful. As a psychologist, I understand the transference that can develop in the therapeutic relationship. I take a deep breath and center myself before my next client arrives. Professional boundaries exist for a reason, and I've spent years building mine. One reluctant firefighter won't change that.

At least, that's what I tell myself as I open the door to welcome my next appointment.

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