Page 49 of Burn

Cap shakes his head at me and then looks at Evan and Jay standing next to him, both smiling. “E, grab a line. I’m sick of this fuckin’ bird.”

I don’t see why we didn’t do that in the beginning, but I’m not the captain. They grab a line and spray the tree until the bird falls out on the ground, unharmed.

“That’s how it’s done,” Evan remarks, smiling arrogantly at me and then kneels next to me. “You’ve got some shit on you. Want me to hose you off?”

I kick at his leg. “Sure, if you think you can reach that far.”

He’s got the firehouse in his hand, and anyone else would shut the fuck up because he knows he could fuck me up if he turned it on. He won’t though. He’s not stupid. Maybe with relationships, but when it comes to firefighting, he’s one of the best.

While the woman is drying the bird off and I’m trying to get off the ground, Owen climbs out of the tree and smiles at me as he takes his helmet off. “Maybe you should call Mila and ask her if she’ll give your ass some attention.”

See? Dirty fuck.

But then I’m thinking about Mila again and no longer concerned with my ass because there’s something else I’d like her to take care of.

My hose.

BIRDS IN TREES, those are the easy calls. I’ve seen some shit. Some calls you’ll never stop thinking about. Like the one we just came from where I pulled a boy from the back of a car only to have him die in my arms.

I’ve seen some fucked up shit over the years. My first year as a firefighter five years ago is one I’ll never forget. I saved some lives, lost more and thought I had a pretty good idea of what to expect as a firefighter on an engine company.

And then I switched over to truck and my world became something I wish I could shut off at times. I’ve carried kids from fires with their skin melting off them, delivered a baby on the side of the freeway and had to pick up a head rolling down the sidewalk. An actual head, no longer attached to a body.

Within a year on the job, I thought I’d seen it all.

Every day I’m proven wrong. It’s the reason why when people say, “Tell me about the crazy calls,” that we usually pop off with something funny. They don’t want to hear about dead babies and kids burning alive and having to pull them out of the fire with no skin left. They want to hear about people like that Justin dude who sticks things up his ass.

So I smile and tell them about the easy shit, the reasons why they think we sit around the firehouse playing cards and watching television.

By three in the afternoon, I’m hanging on by a thread ready to lash out at anyone who gives me the opportunity. It stems mostly from the call we just came from before we’re called to a structural fire, and it’s certainly not the raging inferno I’m hoping for this afternoon. It’s contained to the family room and kitchen.

“It took you forever to get here! Save my house.”

It’s because ofthisbullshit right here I’m in quite possibly the worst mood ever.

“Yeah, well—” I smile sarcastically at the man standing outside his burning multi-million-dollar home, holding what appears to be a trophy I’m tempted to shove up his ass. I’ll tell you something else, too, I’ll never go to another Seahawks game either. “—it takes time to get here.”

We were here exactly six minutes after he placed the 911 call. Does he realize we can’t snap our fingers and be at his home the next second?

Probably not.

I bet this fucker didn’t know, or care, that we’d just come from a job where a four-year-old boy was killed in the back seat of his parents’ SUV when his dad ran a red light.

But now here we are, twenty minutes later, trying to save this guy’s house with no one in it just because he had possessions inside he says are valuable.

Those parents will never be the same. Every day they are going to wonder what they could have done differently to get their son back. And from that dad who ran the red light, failed to pay attention for whatever reason, not a day will go by that he won’t wish it was him instead of his son. That I can be sure of.

I saw the look in his eyes as his son was covered with a tarp.

Some days I can handle what I see and brush it off because I have to. Others, I can’t. That one with the boy got to me, and now I’m in a bad mood because of this guy complaining about his possessions. Fuck him and his meaningless trophies.

We had just started overhaul, a part of the job where we go through the house and check for any remaining sources of heat that can spark a new fire. We also attempt to search for anything salvageable to prevent any further loss.

Naturally, given my shitty mood, I’m not being very careful, probably because this guy showed little respect for us being here in the first place. In my lack of caution, I knock over what appears to be a sentimental trophy of his.

Owen smiles at me, smudges of black covering his face. “You do realize this guy plays football for the Seahawks, right?”

“Yeah, well”—I walk past Owen, bumping his shoulder—“he can shove these trophies up his ass for all I care.”

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