Page 5 of The Grumpy Firefighter
"I am pleased," I admit, straightening a stack of prop books on a nearby table. "The maze is a hit. We've already raised nearly two thousand dollars, and it's only been open an hour."
"The fog machine's running hot," he says, but there's less criticism in his tone than there might have been three days ago. "Bradley's monitoring it."
"Safety first," I say solemnly, unable to resist adding, "magic second. But we're having both, just like I promised."
His mouth twitches in that almost-smile I've come to watch for. "Your library section is... effective," he concedes. "Somelady nearly jumped out of her skin when those books started floating."
"High praise from the Chief," I tease, adjusting my costume glasses. "I'm honored."
Paul steps closer, lowering his voice as another group passes by. "You should be. I don't give compliments lightly."
Something in his tone sends a shiver down my spine. Before I can respond, Austin calls from the entrance.
"Big group coming through! School bus just arrived!"
The next half hour passes in a blur as we guide nearly forty children and their chaperones through the maze. I stay primarily in my library section, bringing books to "life" with hidden pulleys and reveling in each delighted scream. The fog thickens as more groups move through, creating the perfect atmosphere of mystery.
I'm resetting a tilted lantern when I notice the fog seems... different. Denser. And is that a faint burning smell?
A crackle and pop sound from the corner where the main fog machine sits. The white mist suddenly billows more thickly, with an acrid edge that wasn't there before.
"That's not right," I murmur, moving toward the machine.
Before I can reach it, a louder pop echoes through the tent, and the fog machine begins belching thick, gray smoke instead of the theatrical mist we'd been using. The acrid smell intensifies, and I realize with a jolt that something inside the machine is actually burning.
"Everyone move toward the exit!" I call out, keeping my voice firm but calm as I guide the nearest children towardNathan, who's already herding people toward the clearly marked emergency exit. "Follow the green lights, please!"
The smoke billows faster now, rapidly filling our section of the maze. I pull the neck of my cardigan over my nose and mouth, squinting through the thickening haze. The exit is only about thirty feet away.
I start coughing as I guide the last child toward Nathan's outstretched hand, then turn back to check for stragglers. The smoke is getting thicker, darker, filling the narrow corridors of our makeshift maze.
"Hello?" I call, moving deeper into the haze. "Is anyone still in the library section?"
A wall of temporary shelving suddenly shifts beside me as something bumps into it from the other side. I step back quickly, but my heel catches on an electrical cord. I stumble, reaching out to catch myself on what I think is a stable wall, but my hand meets only fabric and I tumble backward into a tangle of props and decorations.
Something heavy falls across my legs and the smoke is so thick now I can barely see my own hands as I try to push it off. My eyes sting, lungs burning as I cough.
"Natalie!" A voice cuts through the smoke, authoritative and urgent. "Natalie, where are you?"
"Here!" I manage between coughs. "By the—" another cough racks my body, "—fallen shelves!"
Dark shapes move through the smoke, and suddenly Paul is kneeling beside me, his face partially covered with what looks like a firefighter's mask. He lifts the bookshelf easily, tossing it aside, then pulls a damp cloth from his pocket.
"Cover your mouth and nose," he instructs, pressing it into my hand. "Can you walk?"
I nod, but when I try to stand, pain shoots through my ankle. "Twisted," I gasp through the cloth.
Without hesitation, Paul wraps one strong arm around my waist and helps me up, taking most of my weight. "Keep low," he says, guiding me into a hunched position. "Smoke rises."
We move through the haze together, Paul navigating with unerring precision despite the near-zero visibility. I'm intensely aware of his body against mine, solid, warm, confident in each movement. His arm around my waist is firm but gentle, and even through the chaos and fear, something electric sparks where his hand grips my side.
A shape looms suddenly in the smoke, a prop we'd hung from the ceiling that's now fallen across our path. Paul stops, evaluating, then turns to me.
"Hold onto me," he says, and before I can ask what he means, he's bent down and lifted me into his arms like I weigh nothing at all.
I grip his shoulders, pressed against his chest as he navigates around the obstacle. Through his shirt, I can feel his heartbeat and the solid strength of muscles.
"Almost there," he murmurs, his breath warm against my hair. "You're going to be fine."
