Page 4 of Half Baked

Tim steps from the entryway down the hall, motioning for me to follow. I obey, trailing behind the burly man in the hard hat. The first room on our right is going to be the locker room. “Drywall is about ready for paint,” he tells me. “Then we can get the lockers in, and the floor after that.”

“Nice. How far ahead of schedule are we talking?”

“Your team will stop crashing on the fire bunks next month,” Tim tells me with a crooked grin.

Things have been crowded since I brought the extra team members in. After the false start, it all seems to be coming together now.

We cross over to a bunk room next as Tim asks, “Is your team operating yet?”

“We’re just waiting for the final permit, hopefully any day now.” I have had to file for the permit on four separate occasions now because there was always just one little thing wrong each time apparently. If I have to do it one more time… I sigh at the thought. Paperwork is far less appealing than diving into a storm tide.

“And the anonymous donor? Ever find out who’s to thank for all of this?” Tim calls over his shoulder as we continue our walk through. There’s an insinuation in his voice, of course. Everyone has it when they ask me that question. They all assume it’s Thompson money. And they’re all right. But I don’t plan to tell them that.

“No, sir,” I reply casually.

“Well, we all get to benefit from this. It was a good thing that person did.” Tim stops and levels me with a knowing look. He’s nicer than most, at least. Most people inform me that Ihave enough money for this project and then some. As if I’m not aware of everything I inherited.

“Hayden, you back here?” a familiar voice shouts.

I look around the corner to spot my longtime friend turned emergency medical technician, Wes. And flight mechanic on the rescue team, actually. He agreed to hold down two roles to start.

Being a flight mechanic means he’s the eyes for the pilots when I’m in the water as well as operating the hoist system I’m attached to. In this position, he is the line of communication between my pilots and myself. It’s a stretch from being a doctor, his trained profession, and I’m immensely grateful that he’s stepped in to round out the team.

“Wes.” I wave him over. “Tim was just telling me that we’ll be in next month.”

“Hell yeah, brother,” our aviator, Nash, calls from the doorway. He runs a hand across his buzzed hair and grins. “I can’t wait to get in here.”

Originally from Texas, Nash served in the Coast Guard with me. And he was my first call when it came time to find someone to pilot the helicopter. He reaches us and turns back to hold his hands up in a framing motion at the wall above the door. “Yessir, perfect place for the hook ‘em flag.”

“Nah man, that shit can go in your room.” Jamie follows close behind. Trained in rescue boat operation as well as being our second helicopter pilot, he’s the most recent addition to the team. We’re small, but we have all the required players to get started.

“What you’re doing is legendary. You know that, right?” Wes asks as we watch our pilots take off for the bunk rooms with Tim. Nash flashes thehook ‘em hornshand signal behind Jamie’s head, jostling his backwards baseball cap in the process.

“What we’re doing,” I correct him.

“No, this is your legacy. It’ll be the reason people know the Thompson name from now on.”

A knot forms in my gut at his mention of my family name. As long as true crime podcasts exist, the Thompson name will be known for only one thing.

“I’m just here to jump out of helicopters into twelve-foot swells,” I tell him. And honestly, it’s the truth. I’m more than fine staying away from the spotlight.

“Then you aren’t going to want to go to the town meeting tomorrow.”

I’m on a flexible version of a day-work schedule, a deal I struck with the fire chief in order to stay on as a firefighter too once the air-sea team is up and running. But it means I can, technically, make it to the town meeting if I wish. Normally, I’m happy to attend, but I know the mayor has been after me to talk about the new team.

I cross my arms and scowl at him. “Why’s that?”

“Ran into the mayor on my way over. He went ahead and took the liberty of putting you on the agenda. He wants an update on when the team will get the green light to operate.”

“Yeah, of course he did,” I scoff.

That twelve-foot swell is looking pretty good right now. I don’t have much time to dwell though, because beyond the double doors that lead to the fire department, I hear an alarm sound. That’s my cue.

Wes nods in understanding when I slap him on the back and head out to respond. Hopefully, one day soon, this team will be able to answer their own call.

The fire took place a town away in Fenbury, and we were responding due to established mutual aid. By the time the blaze was under control, and we were headed back home, it was nearly the end of my shift. Shedding my turnout gear, I throw my arms out in a wide stretch until it reaches through all the muscles across my back. It’s a good feeling, walking away at the end of the day and knowing I made a difference. That I gave something rather than taking.

Reaching for my phone next, I see a missed call from the man handling our permitting. I click open my voicemail eagerly, only to have my hopes plummet once again.

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