Page 218 of Knotting the Firefighters
The exit appears through a smoke—blessed rectangle of daylight that represents safety and survival.
We clear the threshold with seconds to spare?—
The explosion is catastrophic.
Not gradual collapse but violent detonation—accelerant-enhanced destruction that transforms the building into an expanding fireball, a shock wave throwing us forward with force that makes landing painful regardless of athletic training.
Down.
We're all down.
But we're out.
We made it out.
I push up on shaking arms—body protesting, but functional, nothing critical damaged beyond bruising and smoke inhalation.
Around me, others are rising with similar difficulty—crew members moving to assist, emergency personnel converging with medical equipment.
But I can only focus on one thing.
Aidric.
Where's Aidric?—
He's there—twenty feet away, covered in soot and debris but moving, rising to hands and knees with the same determination I'm feeling.
Our eyes meet across distance—communication happening through pack bonds and eye contact, confirming survival and continued connection despite trauma.
Alive.
He's alive.
We're alive.
Gregory lies motionless nearby—unconscious or dead, I can't tell, and don't particularly care beyond hoping he can face justice rather than escaping through death.
Officer Hazel is coordinating—directing her officers, calling for medical support, and establishing a perimeter with practiced efficiency.
The building continues burning—Station Fahrenheit is consumed by flames that will destroy everything we've built, every memory stored in walls that won't survive this night.
It's gone.
Our home is gone.
But we're alive.
Everyone is alive.
The realization hits with unexpected force—overwhelming relief that makes tears flow despite attempts at professional composure.
Gregory is captured or dead—either outcome eliminates the threat he's represented for over a year, removes constant anxiety about the next attack.
It's over.
Actually, genuinely over.
No more running.
