Page 13 of The Fire Between Us

As I pull into my apartment complex, my phone buzzes with a text from Chief Brock: *Monthly inspection drill tomorrow, 1400 hours. Full gear check and review.*

I send back a thumbs-up emoji and drag myself up the stairs to my unit. My spartan apartment welcomes me as I kick off my boots and strip down to boxers on my way to the bedroom. The blackout curtains are already drawn, and I fall into bed with the ease of someone who can sleep anytime, anywhere—a necessary skill for firefighters.

But instead of immediately drifting off, I find myself thinking about Jennie's smile when she talked about Amelia being happy at Mrs. Gunderson's. The genuine relief in her voice when she mentioned the cottage possibility. The careful way she keeps most people at arm's length.

What happened to make her that way? And why do I care so much about a woman I barely know?

The questions follow me into sleep, where my dreams are a confused mixture of burning buildings, garden gnomes, and a woman's laugh that sounds like sunlight breaking through clouds.

The next day

The inspection drill has us all at the station by 2 PM, turnout gear laid out in precise rows for Chief Brock's critical eye. The ritual is familiar—checking every seam, strap, and clasp of our protective equipment, testing radios and lights, inspecting our SCBA masks and tanks.

"Davidson," Brock calls, his voice carrying across the apparatus bay. "The reflective trim on your jacket is showing wear. Put in for a replacement."

"Yes, sir," I acknowledge, making a note on my checklist.

The chief is meticulous about our gear and with good reason. In a structure fire, our equipment is all that stands between us and serious injury or death.

Lewis sidles up next to me as we move on to checking our hand tools. "So," he begins casually, "I met your diner girl yesterday."

"Not my diner girl," I reply automatically, testing the edge of my axe.

"Seemed nice," Lewis continues, ignoring my correction. "Ollis thought so as well."

I focus intently on my equipment check. "Why are we talking about this?"

"Because you haven't shown interest in anyone beyond casual hookups in all the years I've known you," Lewis says bluntly. "And suddenly you're playing tour guide and matchmaker with Mrs. G."

"I was being neighborly," I insist. "She's new in town with a kid. Needed help. End of story."

"Uh-huh." Lewis sounds entirely unconvinced.

"There is nothing between us," I say firmly. "And even if there were—which there isn't—It would be between me and her."

"All I'm saying is—"

He's cut off by the sudden blaring of the station alarm, followed by the dispatcher's voice over the PA system: "Station 42, respond to structure fire, 1823 Maple Street. Residential structure, reports of visible flames and possible entrapment."

We drop our inspection tasks instantly, muscle memory taking over as we rush to our gear. In under a minute, I'm pulling on my boots, turnout pants, suspenders, then thermal hood, coat, helmet, and gloves. Across from me, Lewis, Ollis, and Grant are doing the same, while Chief Brock is already heading for the driver's seat of Engine 42.

The engine's siren wails as we tear out of the station, adrenaline beginning its familiar surge through my system. I run through mental preparations, visualizing search patterns and extraction techniques.

Maple Street means we're heading for the residential area near the elementary school—primarily older single-family homes, many with elderly residents.

"Dispatch update," Brock calls over his shoulder. "Neighbor reports elderly female resident, possible mobility issues. Smoke showing from rear of structure, likely kitchen origin."

I exchange glances with Lewis. Kitchen fires can spread rapidly, especially in older homes with outdated wiring and lots of combustible materials.

As we round the corner onto Maple Street, I can already see the smoke—dark gray billowing from the back of a small blue bungalow. My stomach drops as I recognize the house.

"Chief, that's Mrs. Beaumont's place," I say urgently,

The cottage Jennie was looking at is right behind it.

Brock nods grimly. "Focus on the task, Davidson."

We pull up in front of the house, and the scene comes into clear view. Flames are now visible through the kitchen window, and smoke is pouring from the eaves. A small crowd of neighbors has gathered at a safe distance, and one elderly man is gesturing frantically as Brock approaches.

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