Page 20 of Knotting the Firefighters
Different building, different day, different?—
Meow.
The sound is so tiny, so impossibly small against the roar of destruction, that I almost dismiss it as imagination.
But there—again.
High-pitched, desperate, absolutely real.
Kittens.
The realization punches with the force as it begins to sink in like a rush of tingling panic. Not a person trapped but something equally innocent — deserving of rescue. My feet move before my brain catches up, following that thin thread of sound through smoke and heat and mounting panic.
The source is a corner where the smoke hasn't fully penetrated, a pocket of cleaner air that's allowed survival just a little longer. Four of them, huddled together in a cardboard box like someone's discarded inconvenience.
Tiny bodies pressed close for warmth and comfort, eyes barely open, maybe three weeks old at most.
"Who does this?" The words tear from my throat, anger momentarily overriding fear. "Who abandons babies in a place like this?"
But anger won't save them, and the building groans overhead in a way that speaks of imminent structural failure. I shed my coat—one of my favorites, vintage wool with pearl buttons—and bundle the kittens inside, their weight negligible but their value immeasurable. Four tiny heartbeats against my chest as I turn back toward what I hope is the exit.
The smoke has thickened in just those few moments, visibility dropping to almost nothing. My internal compass spins wildly, landmarks obscured by the dancing orange light and billowing black clouds.
Each breath burns despite my attempts at shallow breathing, lungs protesting the abuse with increasing vehemence.
Left. The entrance was left.
But left from where? The corner could have been anywhere in the structure, and I've lost track of my turns, my steps, my relationship to the outside world. Panic rises like bile, memories of being trapped flooding back with vengeance.
Not again. Please, not again.
I stumble forward, free hand outstretched to feel for obstacles, when my foot catches on debris. The world tilts, gravity asserting dominance, and I crash hard into what turns out to be a burning section of wall. Fire races up my back, immediate and excruciating, forcing a scream from my throat that emerges as more of a strangled gasp.
Drop and roll. Basic training. Drop and roll.
My body responds automatically, hitting the ground hard and rolling frantically until the immediate fire is extinguished. But the damage is done—I can feel the burn across my back, skin screaming in protest, adding another layer of agony to an already impossible situation.
"Fuck," I gasp, struggling back to my feet while still cradling the kittens protectively. They're mewling now, distressed by the motion and heat, and I whisper nonsense reassurances that we both know are lies.
"It's okay, babies. We're getting out. We're?—"
The smoke is denser near the floor now, inversion layers be damned. Each breath is like swallowing glass, sharp and destructive. My vision starts to tunnel, darkness creeping in from the edges like spilled ink.
The exit has to be close. Has to be?—
There.
A rectangle of lighter smoke that might be doorway or might be hallucination but represents the only hope available. I stumble toward it, legs increasingly uncooperative, the world spinning in nauseating circles that have nothing to do with the fire and everything to do with oxygen deprivation.
Ten more steps. Just ten more?—
My knees give out completely, body deciding it's done with this particular adventure. I brace for impact with the unforgiving ground, already calculating how to protect the kittens from the fall, when strong arms catch me.
The world shifts, perspective changing as I'm lifted, and suddenly I'm looking up into storm-gray eyes that I recognize from two weeks ago.
The captain—Aidric, was it?— my memory supplies through the fog. This close, his features are sharp with concern, jaw clenched with determination that speaks of someone who's made a career of impossible rescues.
The cowboy hat sitting on his head matched with the typical fannel attire is far different from the man bedazzled with fire gear and a protective urgency to get his victim out. His expression really is no different from before, only it seems wilder with possessiveness, as he takes me in with wide eyes.
