Page 7 of Smoke Signals

Instead, I’m here as a visitor.

We’re halfway through the second round of coffee when the tones drop.

Everything changes in a heartbeat.

Chairs scrape back, cups are abandoned and my team moves on instinct, muscle memory snapping everyone into place. I feel it in my bones—the reflex to go, to move, to be useful.

But I can’t.

I stand there, useless, watching as they gear up and pour out of the doors like they always do.

The bay doors thunder shut behind them.

The silence that follows is worse.

I exhale slowly and set my coffee down with a sigh. There’s no reason to linger. No job for me here today.

I head home.

My apartment is quiet in a way that feels wrong and lonely. I can’t wait to be back to work and on the truck, feeling the rush as we speed to an emergency.

I hang up my jacket, drop my keys in the bowl by the door, and head straight to the bedroom. The physical therapy band hangs looped around the doorknob, waiting.

I brace my feet and start the stretches.

Slow pull. Hold. Release.

My shoulder resists, then gives a fraction. I grit my teeth through the familiar burn. Not pain, exactly. More like a reminder.

This is where I fucked up.

The memory comes whether I want it or not.

Smoke thick enough to chew on. Heat pressing in from all sides. The scream wasn’t loud—just high and short-lived, cutting through everything else.

There.

The kid was wedged behind a half-collapsed wall, eyes wide, face streaked with soot. Too small to understand what was happening. Too scared to move.

I’d reached for him without thinking.

The beam shifted, and the ladder slipped. My shoulder took the hit as I twisted, shielding him, taking the brunt of the weight.

I remember the sound more than anything—the sickening pop that didn’t belong to the fire.

The kid cried when I handed him off outside. He was alive and shaking, but alive nonetheless.

It was worth it then, and it’s still worth it today. My doctor doesn't see it that way.

I finish the last rep and drop onto the bed, staring at the ceiling until my breathing evens out.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Brielle.

I met her a while back on one of the calls you never forget.

A domestic disturbance in a small apartment. When we got there, it was quiet. She stood there with her arms wrapped around herself, apologizing for things she didn’t do with bruises blooming like shadows on her face and neck she tried to hide.