Page 73 of Fighting For You

Travis stared at us. "Who? When? Give me names."

Wyatt and I laughed. Travis opened his mouth to argue.

The tones dropped.

Travis threw the sponge in the bucket. We were in the bay in seconds, stepping into boots, pulling up pants, grabbing coats off the rack. The engine was rolling before the bay doors finished opening.

Apartment fire. Three-story building off Eastern Avenue. Multiple engines were already on scene when we pulled up. Smoke pushed out of the second and third floor windows, thick and dark, and the crews from Station 107 had a line running through the front entrance.

Thompson was on the radio before we stopped. "Engine 110 on scene. Assuming second-floor search and rescue, east side."

We masked up and went in. The stairwell was banked with smoke from the second floor up. Visibility dropped to nothing past the landing. We worked the east side of the second floor room by room, clearing apartments, moving people toward the stairwell. Wyatt and Travis took one end of the hall. Greene and I took the other.

The last apartment on our end had an elderly woman sitting in a chair by the window. She couldn't walk. She'd been waiting there since the alarm started, her hands folded in her lap, calm in a way that told me she'd already decided she wasn't getting out.

I lifted her out of the chair. Greene cleared the path ahead of me. We moved down the hallway toward the stairwell. Wyatt and Travis fell in behind us from the other end of the hall. The smoke was thicker now, banking lower, and I could feel the heat building above us through the ceiling.

We came out the front entrance into daylight. The medics met us on the sidewalk and I set her down on the gurney. She grabbed my forearm before I could step back.

"Thank you, young man."

"Yes, ma'am."

I pulled my mask off and took a breath. The building was still burning. Crews were working the third floor now, and the second line was pushing into the west side. Thompson was at the command post tracking positions on the board.

Then I heard shouting.

A boy broke from the perimeter tape. Eight or nine years old, face red, voice cracking. He ran toward a man the medics were walking out of the front entrance.

"Dad! Dad! Did you get Buster out?"

The father dropped to one knee, coughing, and the boy grabbed his arm.

"He's not with you?"

"No! I thought he was with you!"

The boy turned toward the building. "Buster's still up there! Somebody has to get him! Please!"

"What floor?" I said.

The father looked at me. "Third floor. 3B."

I should have called it in. I should have waited for Thompson to make the call. The building was still active, third floor was still burning, and no captain in the state was going to authorize a re-entry for a dog.

I went back through the front entrance.

Thompson's voice hit the radio before I reached the stairwell. "Sullivan. Sullivan, report your position. Do not re-enter the structure."

I didn't answer. I was already on the stairs.

"Sullivan, respond."

I kept climbing. Second floor was cleared and mostly burned out. The stairwell to three was hotter, the smoke darker, pushing down from above. I stayed low and moved fast.

Third floor hallway. Fire had the west end. The east end was hazy but passable. 3B was the second door on the right. I pushed through it. The apartment was filling with smoke, rolling across the ceiling. I got low and swept the bedroom.

The dog was under the bed. Pressed flat against the wall, shaking. A mutt, medium-sized, brown and white. I reached under, grabbed its collar, and dragged it out. It went limp against my chest when I picked it up.