Page 42 of Burning Hearts
I carried it to City Hall and filed my formal recusal from any Brickyard inspections. I’d told everyone, and now it was official in ink. Wyatt stamped it, and the next thing on my list was to meet a reporter who was doing a piece on safety preparations for town events.
She caught me just outside the truck bays with a mic and a jacket full of pins. Two peaches, one magnolia, and a tiny #TeamSignal button I pretended not to notice.
“Walk me through how people get out, for the record?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, and we started moving.
I pointed to the north bay. “Primary exit. We keep eight feet clear in front of it.
Then the south bay. “This door swings wide. Nothing blocks it, ever.”
She filmed while I talked. I explained the emergency lights and backup batteries, how we test them every week. I gave her the numbers in plain language. How many people the building can safely hold. How the hallway stays wide enough for a stroller and a wheelchair to pass without anyone having to shuffle.
“Can I get a photo in the doorway?” she asked.
“We don’t pose where people have to move,” I said. “Let’s step outside the marked lane.”
She nodded and adjusted. The picture ended up with me in front of the chalkboard instead of standing where an evac line would go. She tried to make it pretty.
“Talk me through the restaurant fire,” she said.
“Kitchen flare,” I answered. “The suppressant system worked. We had a hot spot in the duct, and it was handled. The staff were trained, and Deputy Kerr had the full picture. The best thing you can do with a small fire is keep it small.”
“And the Signal House producer who was counting people?” she asked casually.
“Accurate head counts help us move faster,” I said. “He gave us clean numbers. That matters.”
It was true, impersonal, and safe.
I added, “You can quote the Deputy on that.”
We wrapped a minute later. She promised to stick to what I had actually said. In my book, that made it a good interview.
I walked outdoors and took in the scenery.
Main Street had practically turned into a scoreboard overnight. Window signs everywhere. #TeamBrew pint doodles, #TeamSignal lightning bolts. The Cast Iron’s dry-erase poll had tally marks. Beau’s digital poll bounced between forty-nine/fifty-one and fifty-one/forty-nine, depending on who refreshed first.
People wore their pins with pep-rally energy, but underneath it all the ask was simple. Pick the thing that makes the town work better.
By noon the Commons was in camera shape—lanes clear, mats down. Battery candles did their wholesome, regulation-compliant glow. Beau was going live at one from the fountain to “take the temperature,” which meant tell enough jokes that people behaved without noticing they were being managed.
They wanted fifteen seconds of safety from me, and I had said yes. Fifteen seconds is sometimes the difference between a clean day and a mess.
I was checking the edge of a cable mat when a photographer with a long lens backed straight into the stroller lane. He had the camera trained on me, which meant he was blocking traffic and treating me like a shot list item at the same time.
“Cade,” Beau’s producer called from the fountain. “Fifteen, then a poll.”
“On my way,” I said.
The lens pivoted and the photographer drifted closer.
“Quick shot?” he asked, already drifting into traffic.
A hand closed around my forearm and guided me one clean step sideways into a doorway between the florist and an antiques place.
Shade and quiet, completely out of frame.
Ellis.
