Page 47 of Knotting the Firefighters
She did this.
In under two hours.
Transformed our disaster crew into functional unit.
Ambulances cluster at safe distance, paramedics moving between them with stretchers and medical equipment. Police vehicles form perimeter—Officer Hazel Martinez's distinctive cruiser prominent among them, her voice carrying across the scene as she barks orders to subordinate officers who scramble to comply.
Multiple jurisdictions coordinating seamlessly.
Exactly how emergency response should function.
I exit the truck before it fully stops, boots hitting pavement as I scan for Bear's distinctive bulk. Find him emerging from the building's main entrance with four other firefighters, each carefully cradling small forms that make my stomach drop.
Children.
Multiple children, carried with practiced care, handed off to waiting paramedics with efficiency suggesting this isn't the first extraction.
Why would children be in a burning heritage building?
Tom appears at my elbow—when did he arrive? I thought he was staying behind—already engaging nearby civilian in the kind of rapid-fire questioning that extracts maximum information in minimum time.
"What building is this?" he demands, authority cutting through shock and confusion. "Why are there so many children present?"
The woman he's addressing—middle-aged, carrying herself with teacher-like organization despite obvious distress—responds immediately.
"Heritage building, one of the oldest in this district. The children were here on field trip from the neighboring town's elementary school, touring local history sites."
Another civilian pushes forward—younger woman, clipboard still clutched despite circumstances, identification badge marking her as tour coordinator.
"Everything was fine," she insists, voice carrying edge of defensive panic. "The tour was going perfectly, the guide was explaining the building's historical significance, and then smoke started appearing. We don't know where the fire originated, but it spread impossibly fast. We called the station multiple times?—"
"They're surprised you arrived so quickly," the first woman interrupts, something like awe coloring her tone. "The response time was incredible. And that woman—" She gestures toward the building. "—she was magnificent. Barking orders, organizing evacuation, coordinating with police and medical like she'd been preparing for this exact scenario."
Silas stiffens beside me, medical instincts overriding everything else.
"She's still inside?" The question emerges tight, controlled, completely failing to hide his concern.
"Yes," the coordinator confirms. "One more girl is missing—Violet, seven years old, got separated during initial evacuation.That woman went back in personally to search when the crews couldn't locate her immediately."
Went back in.
Personally.
Without waiting for structural assessment or clearance.
The familiar surge of fury and admiration creates nauseating cocktail, because that's exactly what a fire chief should do—lead from front, demonstrate courage that inspires crews, risk themselves for lives that need saving.
But she's recovering from smoke inhalation.
Burns on her back.
Completely unauthorized to be here.
The explosion interrupts my internal crisis—massive, ground-shaking detonation that sends everyone instinctively scrambling backward.
Windows shatter, smoke billows outward in renewed surge, flames licking from second-story openings with renewed vigor.
"Generator," someone shouts. "First generator just exploded!"
