Page 192 of Controlled Burn
She stood straighter now. Walked taller.
Led without apology.
Her new crew followed her, not because they had to—because she earned it.
Kennedy was sharp—young, gentle, deeply good in a way most people weren’t anymore. Still soft in places this job hadn’t scarred yet. Talia protected that softness like it was hers to guard.
Riley was ex-military. Flint-eyed. Surgical with a tourniquet.
Cole, her driver, barely spoke unless it was about pressure gauges or his twin girls. Solid. Loyal. Steady as hell.
No one asked about Station 12.
No one asked about Maddox.
They just trusted her to call the shots.
And she did.
On her third week, they caught a two-story house fire in a wealthy neighborhood—trussed roof, hidden danger. She walked the line. Assigned search. Ventilation. Command. No hesitation.
When the little girl came out coughing in her arms, no one called it luck.
They called it leadership.
Later that night, she scrubbed tools in the bay alone. The city buzzed behind the walls, thick with late-summer heat. Her back ached. Knuckles raw. Smoke clung to her skin. She hadn’t eaten in hours. Didn’t care.
She felt good.
Not reckless. Not wrecked.
Just… steady.
In her locker:
A sealed envelope.
Her name. Department letterhead.
Leadership Development Program—battalion-track fast pass.
She hadn’t opened it. Not yet. She pressed her thumb along the crease and let the weight of it burn into her palm. It wasn’t a question ofif. Justwhen.
Next to it, tucked behind a spare t-shirt, was the yellow dress.
The one from that night.
She hadn’t worn it since. Didn’t need to.
Sometimes she brushed her fingers over the fabric.
Not to mourn what was lost.
But to remember what she survived.
The way scars do.
When the engine rumbled back in from refueling, Riley hopped out and tossed her a cup.
