Page 1 of Feastin' with Fire
Chapter 1 - Jimmy
The station is quiet except for the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional ping from the coffee maker. I run my thumb over a fresh burn on my palm. Nothing serious, just an angry red mark from yesterday's kitchen fire when my glove caught a stray ember.
Fifteen years of fighting fires, and I still collect these little reminders on my skin like some men collect sports memorabilia.
"Sullivan, you planning to stare at that report all day or actually fill it out?" Chief Mike's voice breaks through my thoughts.
I look down at the blank incident form I've been ignoring for the past ten minutes. "Just getting to it, Chief."
"Uh-huh." He doesn't believe me. After working together for twelve years, he can read me like a hazard warning. "Tommy brought donuts. Eat something before you become even more of a pain in my ass."
I grunt in response, which he correctly interprets as both gratitude and acknowledgment. The station feels emptier than usual today. Just me, Chief, and rookie Danny on shift. The kid's been with us three months and still looks at every call like he's heading into battle, all wide-eyed determination and nervous energy.
Danny appears from the kitchen area, powdered sugar dusting his uniform shirt. "Hey Jimmy, there's still a jelly-filled one with your name on it."
"Later," I mutter, though my stomach rumbles in protest. I haven't eaten since yesterday's dinner, a microwaved frozen meal in my too-big, too-quiet house.
The blank form stares back at me.
Name: Eleanor Walsh. Age: 74. Cause of incident: Grease fire from unattended cooking. I'd found her huddled in her bathroom, terrified but unharmed while her kitchen filled with smoke. Her hands had trembled in mine as I led her outside, and she'd clutched my arm with surprising strength, tears cutting clean tracks through the soot on her face.
"You're a good boy," she'd said, patting my cheek like I was still a child and not a thirty-five-year-old man with more scars than I care to count. "Someone raised you right."
I almost laughed at that. My father had been gone since I was twelve, and my mother's second husband taught me plenty, mostly how to take a punch and keep my mouth shut. But Mrs. Walsh didn't need to hear that.
"Just doing my job, ma'am," I said instead.
The station alarm blares suddenly, jolting me upright. Adrenaline floods my system as dispatch's voice crackles over the intercom.
"Pine Haven Fire Department, we have a structure fire reported at 412 Maple Street. Commercial building, possible occupant inside. Engine 1, respond."
I'm on my feet before the message finishes, muscle memory taking over as I move toward my gear. 412 Maple. My mind catalogs the location instantly. The old brick building near the town square that used to be Harrison's Hardware until it closed last year. There's a new business there now. A flower shop.
"Sullivan, Tommy, you're with me," Chief barks, already halfway into his turnout gear. "Danny, you drive."
The rookie nods, face serious as we scramble to gear up. Ninety seconds later, we're pulling out of the station, sirens wailing. Through the window, I watch Pine Haven blur past. The dinerwhere I eat breakfast most mornings, the Rusty Nail where Maggie keeps my usual whiskey waiting on bad days, the park where I sometimes sit alone watching families I'll never have.
"Report says someone called it in after seeing smoke," Chief says from the front seat. "Might have started in the back room. Caller mentioned the florist might still be inside."
The florist. An image flashes in my mind—a small woman with dark hair pulled back, always looking down at flowers or the ground, never making eye contact when I pass her on the street. I've noticed her around town these past few months but never spoken to her. She opened that shop recently, I think. Petals something.
"Sullivan, you with us?" Tommy asks, nudging my shoulder.
"Yeah," I say, focusing. "How long has she been open? The florist?"
"Couple months, maybe?" Tommy shrugs. "My sister bought some arrangement there last week. Said the owner was sweet but shy as hell."
We round the corner onto Maple Street, and I see it immediately. Smoke pouring from the back of the brick building, flames visible through the front display window. The glass storefront reflects the emergency lights of our truck, red and white flashing across flowers that will soon be ash.
Danny brings the engine to a stop, and we're out before he cuts the engine. The heat hits me first—always does. Then the smell: burning wood, plastic, and beneath it all, the sickeningly sweet scent of flowers cooking in their vases.
"Sullivan, Conrad, check for occupants," Chief orders. "I want a primary search now. Rest of you, get a line on that back entrance."
Conrad and I move as one unit toward the front door, masks on, tanks checked. Through the glass, I can see the interior of the shop: counters with wilting flowers, a register area, buckets of arrangements. No movement.
"Fire department!" I call as we force the door open, my voice muffled behind my mask. Smoke billows out, and we step into hell.
Chapter 2 - Lily
