Page 212 of Knotting the Firefighters
Every nightmare scenario firefighters train for.
We're dressing frantically—pulling on whatever clothing is immediately accessible, knowing that time is a critical factor and proper gear is stored in the truck for exactly this scenario.
Emergency suits.
Kept in the trunk specifically for situations requiring rapid deployment.
Thank fuck for my paranoid preparation.
Aidric tries a different frequency—switching to the backup channel that should provide an alternative communication pathway.
"Any Station Fahrenheit personnel, this is Chief Hawthorne. Respond with current status."
Crackling—then a sudden burst of sound that makes everyone freeze.
"FIRE!" Dax's voice cuts through the interference—pure panic evident, professionalism abandoned in favor of basic warning. "CHIEF, THERE'S FIRE?—"
"Where?" Aidric snaps with command authority. "Dax, where is the fire?"
"THE FIREHOUSE!" The scream is nearly incoherent. "Station Fahrenheit is?—"
The line cuts—dead air replacing panicked communication, leaving us with incomplete information and rapidly accelerating heart rates.
The station.
Our station is on fire.
The place where our crew sleeps, where our equipment is stored, where?—
Oh fuck.
How many people were on duty?
Who's inside?
We share a look—a split second of silent communication where pack bonds transmit everything words would take too long to express. Terror and determination and absolute certainty that we're about to do something dangerous without adequate preparation.
"Truck," Aidric commands with authority that brooks no argument. "Now. Emergency gear from trunk, fastest route possible."
We're moving—coordinated chaos as five people navigate out of the nest room, through the house, toward the garage where Aidric's truck waits.
Fifteen minutes.
Maybe fifteen minutes to cover the distance between the ranch and town if we ignore speed limits and safety protocols.
Fifteen minutes while building burns.
While people might be trapped inside.
I'm dialing Officer Hazel before conscious thought authorizes action—emergency contact list pulled up with muscle memory, her number selected automatically.
She answers on the second ring—voice sharp with awareness that suggests she's already mobilized.
"Murphy, I'm actually behind you. Putting sirens on now."
Behind us?
How is she?—?
