Chapter 29 #2
"I'm fine, Thompson. Just want everything to be right for him."
Thompson studied my face for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Alright. But I'm driving you home tonight. And you're eating that sandwich first."
Saturday morning dawned gray and cold, appropriate weather for a line-of-duty funeral.
I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, adjusting my dress uniform with mechanical precision.
Black mourning band across my badge. White gloves spotless.
Every brass button polished to a mirror shine.
Cap had always said you could tell everything you needed to know about a firefighter by how they maintained their dress uniform.
The Ridge Street Station was transformed into a staging area for what would be one of the largest firefighter funerals the region had seen in years.
Departments from across three states had sent representatives.
The apparatus bay had been cleared and filled with chairs, the massive overhead doors open to accommodate the overflow crowd that spilled onto the street.
I found myself checking and rechecking details that had already been checked — the positioning of the honor guard, the timing of the bagpiper, the route for the procession. Control. I could control these things when I couldn't control anything else.
"Lieutenant Delgado?" A young firefighter from a neighboring department approached me nervously. "I'm supposed to tell you the color guard is in position, and the honor guard is ready for your signal."
"Thank you. Five minutes."
I stepped outside, needing air, needing space.
The street was lined with fire apparatus from dozens of departments, their lights flashing in synchronized silence.
Firefighters in dress uniforms stood in perfect formation, their faces solemn.
At the far end of the street, I could see news crews setting up their cameras.
Cap would have hated the media attention, but he'd have understood it.
This was how the fire service honored its own.
"Izzy."
I turned to find Jimmy approaching from the parking area. He was in a dark suit, looking handsome but out of place among all the uniforms. His eyes were red-rimmed and worried, focused entirely on me.
"How are you holding up?" he asked softly.
"Fine," I said automatically.
"No, you're not." He stepped closer, his voice gentle. "You don't have to be fine for me. Not today."
Something in his tone, the careful way he was looking at me, made me want to scream. Or cry. Or both. Instead, I felt the wall grow thicker.
"I need to get back inside. The service is starting soon."
"Izzy, wait." He caught my arm gently. "I just wanted to say... Cap was a good man. I'm so sorry."
I looked at his hand on my arm, then back at his face, and nodded. "Yeah."
I pulled away from his touch and walked back into the station, leaving him standing on the sidewalk.
Inside, the crowd had settled into respectful silence.
Every seat was filled, with firefighters and paramedics standing along the walls and spilling out into the apparatus bay.
I recognized faces from stations across the region, men and women who'd traveled hours to pay their respects to a firefighter they'd probably never met but understood completely.
The service was everything Cap would have wanted — respectful, solemn, focused on his service rather than his death. The department chaplain spoke about sacrifice and brotherhood. The fire chief read a letter from the governor. Margaret spoke briefly about Cap's dedication to his department family.
And then it was my turn.
I stepped to the podium, looking out at a sea of dress uniforms and badges draped in black mourning bands. The silence was complete, respectful, waiting.
"How do I explain who Captain O'Sullivan was?
" I began, my voice carrying clearly through the packed station.
"He'd want you to know he was a fireman.
A truckie. He wouldn't brag about his thirty-two years of service, or tell you that he was considered the senior man not just on his truck, but for the entire department. "
I found Jimmy in the crowd, standing at the back near the apparatus bay doors. Our eyes met briefly, and I saw the pain there, the love, the desperate wish to comfort me. But I felt nothing. The grief was there, locked away, but I couldn't access it. Wouldn't access it.
"He was a member of the Honor Guard," I continued, "and he would travel anywhere, on his own time and his own dime, to be there for the family of someone he'd never met.
He believed that when a firefighter fell, we all fell a little.
And when we gathered to honor them, we all stood a little taller. "
My voice caught slightly, the only crack in my composure. I paused, gathering myself, aware of the hundreds of eyes watching me.
"But mostly, he was kind. I remember one day when I was having a particularly hard time.
I was sitting in the station lounge, feeling sorry for myself, probably not hiding it very well.
Cap found me there, and he didn't ask what was wrong or try to fix anything.
He just pulled me out of that chair and gave me a hug.
That was Cap. He left kindness in his wake. "
I stepped back from the podium as the honor guard prepared for the ceremonial elements.
The presentation of the flag to Margaret, folded with military precision.
The three-volley salute that made me flinch — not from the sound, but from the finality of it.
And then, carried on the cold morning air, the haunting notes of "Amazing Grace" played on bagpipes.
The music cut through me like a blade, piercing through the wall I'd built to reach something raw and broken inside. But I didn't let it show. I stood at attention, dry-eyed and controlled, as the most important person in my life was honored and mourned and finally laid to rest.
And then, the last call came over our radios … dispatch honoring Cap with the traditional final call for a fallen firefighter.
"Summit County Dispatch to Captain Michael O'Sullivan, Badge Number 2847."
Silence.
"Captain O'Sullivan, Badge Number 2847."
The static stretched on, heavy with meaning.
"Captain Michael O'Sullivan, your service to Summit County Fire Rescue and the citizens you protected has ended. Your watch is complete. Rest in peace. Ridge Street Station is out of service for Captain Michael O'Sullivan."
The radio fell silent, and with it, an era ended.
The reception was a subdued affair, firefighters sharing stories and memories over coffee and sandwiches that no one seemed to have much appetite for.
I moved through the crowd like a ghost, accepting condolences with practiced grace while feeling nothing.
My crew hovered nearby, protective and worried, but I kept them at arm's length, too.
This new wall I'd built didn't discriminate. It kept everyone out.
I needed air. Space. Something other than the weight of sympathetic eyes and careful voices offering comfort I couldn't accept. The crowd was suffocating in its kindness, every well-meaning touch and whispered condolence pressing against the wall I'd built until I thought it might crack.
Cap's office door was open, the light off.
I slipped inside and closed the door behind me, grateful for the sudden quiet.
His coffee mug still sat on the desk — a chipped ceramic piece that read "World's Okayest Captain," a gag gift from last year's Christmas party.
His reading glasses were folded beside a stack of reports he'd never finish.
The little wooden sign that had hung behind his desk for as long as I'd known him — "Can't outrank dirty dishes" — seemed to mock the pristine order of a space that would never be lived in again.
I picked up his pen, the cheap Bic he'd used for everything from incident reports to birthday cards. My fingers closed around it, and for a moment I felt something crack in my chest, something that threatened to spill out and drown me.
A soft knock on the door made me straighten, schooling my features back into careful neutrality.
"L.T.?" Thompson's voice was gentle, concerned. "You okay in there?"
I set the pen down carefully, precisely where I'd found it. "I'm fine."
"Mind if I come in?"
I opened the door to find Thompson standing there with Benny, both of them wearing the kind of careful expressions people used around unexploded ordnance.
"Just needed a quiet moment," I said.
"When's the last time you ate?" Benny asked, his voice carrying the gentle authority of someone who'd been looking after rookies for two decades.
"I'm not hungry."
"That's not what I asked." Thompson stepped closer, his eyes scanning my face with the kind of assessment that came from years of reading people under stress. "You've been taking care of everyone else all day. Cap wouldn't want you running yourself into the ground."
"Cap would want me to do my job."
"Your job isn't to carry this alone," Thompson said quietly. "We're your crew. Let us help."
I looked at these two men — good firefighters, loyal friends, the closest thing to family I had left — and felt the wall I'd built grow another layer of concrete. They meant well. They always meant well. But well-meaning had already destroyed everything else in my life.
"I'm fine," I repeated. "Just need to freshen up before I head home."
Thompson and Benny exchanged a look, some wordless communication passing between them. Finally, Thompson nodded.
"Alright, L.T. But if you need anything …"
"I know where to find you."
I walked past them toward the women's restroom, feeling their worried eyes on my back.
The bathroom was mercifully empty, just me and the harsh fluorescent lights that made my dress uniform look washed out in the mirror.
I turned on the cold water and splashed it on my face, letting the shock of it center me.