Page 214 of Knotting the Firefighters
We screech into the parking area with probably illegal deceleration—the truck barely stops before we're evacuating, rushing toward emergency equipment stored in the back.
The scene is controlled chaos—firefighters in various stages of dress working suppression efforts, equipment deployed with professional competence despite obvious shock at having their own station targeted.
They're alive.
Most of them are alive and functional.
That's good.
That's—
Blaze barks frantically from a safe distance—a distinctive sound that I recognize immediately because I've heard it before. Not general alarm barking but a specific pattern that meanssomeone is still inside, someone needs help, why aren't you rescuing them?
Same bark from the kitten rescue.
Same desperate insistence that we're missing someone.
Someone is inside.
Someone is still inside the burning building.
The three rookies cluster near the parking area—Dax, Rook, and Flynn, holding kittens who are surprisingly calm given the circumstances, focused on keeping small animals secure while chaos erupts around them.
"Everyone accounted for?" I'm already moving toward them, emergency suit half-secured but functional enough for initial assessment.
They exchange glances—uncertainty evident, collective realization that they don't actually know.
"We're not sure," Dax admits with guilt evident. "Everything happened so fast—alarm sounded, we evacuated, tried to do a headcount, but people are scattered?—"
No complete accounting.
No confirmation that everyone escaped.
Which means?—
I look toward Aidric, find him already staring at me with identical realization crystallizing simultaneously.
Chief Tom.
Where's Chief Tom?
He should be here, should be coordinating, should be visible and commanding?—
And he's not.
We nod—silent agreement to the course of action that's probably stupidly dangerous but absolutely necessary, pack bonds transmitting certainty that neither of us could abandon someone without attempting rescue.
Helmets secured, breathing apparatus checked with rapid efficiency born from countless drills, we move toward the building entrance that's belching smoke with ominous intensity.
"MURPHY! HAWTHORNE!" Multiple voices shout warnings—crew members recognizing our intention, trying to stop us from entering a structure that any reasonable assessment would declare too dangerous.
Can't stop.
Won't stop.
Someone is inside, and we don't abandon people.
The heat hits immediately —a wall of thermal energy that transforms breathing into a conscious effort despite protective equipment. Visibility drops to near-zero, and smoke is thick enough to create complete disorientation.
