“Rookie, hang back once we get there and just watch,” I said, as we pulled around the corner and parked. “There will be plenty of time for joining in the action, but today’s not the day.”
Tony and I hopped out of the rig and walked over to where Chief was standing, looking up at the two-story house. Flames were shooting out of the upper windows on the west side of the building, and two women stood on the east side of the house pointing up at the windows yelling that there was a man trapped on the second floor. Chief gave us our orders before Tony and I donned our masks and grabbed a hose. The other guys began hoisting a ladder up to the second floor as Tony and I busted open the front door and headed up the stairs. There were flames jumping from th
e ceiling in the upstairs hallway, and the large wooden banister caught fire as we slowly moved up the stairway toward the second floor.
“Watch out for the sparks!” Tony yelled, as a portion of the ceiling fell down in front of us. The embers lit the carpeting and burned brightly as I aimed the hose and doused the flames. To our left, the house was quickly being consumed by fire while the right side smoldered and threatened to go up at any moment.
“Find the guy they said is up here!” I yelled, as I turned the hose toward the flames.
Tony quickly ran up the stairs and began pounding on doors yelling “Fire Department! Call out!” When he pushed open the third door, he yelled, “Blake, he’s here! I need help lifting him!”
I secured the hose on the stairs and ran to help Tony lift the large man off the floor and carry him to the window. We loaded him on a backboard and then passed him out the window to the guys waiting on the ladder.
“We need to get the flames under control,” I said, as we headed back to the stairs. I grabbed the hose as Tony began chopping holes in the walls to make sure the fire hadn’t spread inside the walls. I could hear the guys on the roof using their axes to vent the fire as I doused the hallway and put out the flames.
When we emerged from the house an hour later, I saw Cal sitting on the curb with his head down between his knees, gasping for air. Tony walked over and slapped him on the back asking, “What the hell happened, rookie?” When Cal couldn’t answer, another of the guys spoke up and said, “He tried to pull the hose out without releasing the hook and knocked the wind out of his sails. Maybe busted a rib or something.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, rookie!” Tony shouted. “What the hell is wrong with you? Did you forget your brain back at the station? Hose usage is basic stuff! What the fuck, you idiot?”
When Cal didn’t respond, Tony stomped off swearing a blue streak as he helped roll up the hoses and store the gear. I walked over to where Cal was sitting and quietly said, “Hey, that was a dumb move all right, but we’ve all been there. Shake it off, rookie. You’ll do better next time.” Cal turned and looked up at me with a solemn expression, then nodded and pushed himself up off the ground.
“You should go over to the EMTs and have them check you out before we head back to the station,” I said. Silently, he nodded and turned to walk away.
Tony sidled up next to me holding a couple of axes in one hand and demanded to know why I was talking to the idiot rookie.
“Ease up, man; you’ve made your point,” I said quietly, as I looked at him and raised an eyebrow, “We’ve all been there before, or have you forgotten?”
“Fuck off, Gaston,” Tony said with a wry grin as he walked to the truck and stored the axes.
“Just saying,” I grinned, as we swung ourselves up into the rig and waited for the driver to take us back to the station.
Chapter Eight
Emily
Friday afternoon, as I was finishing hanging the best homework assignments on the board outside my classroom, I saw Nina Gaston walking down the hallway. She dragged her feet as if she were dreading whatever was waiting outside.
“Nina, can I talk to you?” I called, as she edged along the wall, intent on avoiding me. “Nina, I know you hear me.”
She looked up, surprised that I’d call her out this way, and stopped walking. I motioned to the classroom door, and silently she walked over and entered the room.
“I want to talk to you about your History grade,” I said, trying to maintain a calm, nonjudgmental tone.
“My dad already read me the riot act,” she said in a flat voice. “I know what you want and what I need to do. Is there anything else?”
“Nina, I don’t understand why you aren’t doing better,” I said, abandoning the pretense of neutrality. “You’re an incredibly smart student who has written some astute essays in the past. This change in attitude doesn’t make sense to me.”
“Not everything makes sense, Ms. Fowler,” she said, without further comment.
“Try and explain it to me,” I prodded.
“I don’t care about History,” she shrugged.
“Why not? I mean, I know my lectures aren’t the most scintillating, but the assignments are top-notch!” I joked.
“History is in the past; why dig it up?” Nina asked.
“Because we can learn a lot from it,” I said, wondering what had led her to draw this conclusion and why she was ruining her grades in order to prove her point.