1. Jake
Jake
The last thirty minutes of a fourteen-hour shift is always the longest. It seems to go on forever, especially when it’s been a busy night and then the last hour has been quiet.
Quiet.
It’s something no firefighter ever says out loud. There’s something ominous about the word. The second it’s spoken for anyone to hear, all hell breaks loose and calmness immediately erupts into chaos.
So, I never say it. That word never crosses my lips. It’s nothing more than something long forgotten from my spoken language.
So the time drags on. Not because I'm doing anything important. Because I'm waiting. Watching the clock tick down until my shift is over, and I’m off for the next four days.
Bliss. All I plan to do is sleep. Is that wrong? God, I hope not.
I’m fucking exhausted.
I lean against the open back doors of the medic truck with one boot planted on the bumper, inventory sheet forgotten beside me.
Every compartment is packed exactly how it should be.
Airway bag? Restocked. Trauma kits? Full.
IV supplies? Replaced. Everything is exactly where the next crew expects to find it.
I always make sure of that. Even on nights that are busy, and my shift has ended. I stay and make sure it’s done.
I'm a good guy like that. Every firehouse should have a Jake Lawson.
Nobody should start their shift cleaning up after someone else. Especially not when it comes to this job.
Something twists low in my gut as I look over the organized shelves one last time. I don't know why, but I have a feeling tonight's crew is going to stay busy.
Call it a gut feeling.
Call it experience.
Call it firefighter intuition.
Whichever way you look at it, I'm glad they're walking into a truck that's ready.
I lower down, sitting on the edge of the bumper beside Potts.
The probie has been with us for a few weeks. Young. Eager. Smart enough to ask questions instead of pretending he knows everything. And still full of nerves.
But hell, didn’t we all have them when we first started?
I’ve taken him under my wing. Teaching him because I have another gut feeling that he’ll make a good medic one day.
If he survives the mental part. The grudging day in and day out of being a firefighter.
The great saves and the heart-wrenching losses.
Because sadly, not everyone survives. It’s the cold reality of life and the harsh truth of being a hero.
As much as we want to save everyone, we can’t.
Sometimes we have to make tough decisions and know where to place our energies in a rescue situation.
My eyes stay locked on him as he stares out across the bay floor, elbows on his knees, helmet sitting beside him. It’s like he’s in his own world, oblivious to my presence beside him. He’s struggling right now.
I know. I’ve been there before. Had that same destroyed look on my face. Most likely having the same debate in my head that he’s probably having now. Can I do this?
"That was a rough call," he says quietly, his voice cracking.
I don't answer right away.
Because he's right. Last night's cardiac arrest hasn't left either of us. He was an older man who collapsed in front of his wife and grandchildren after making it out of their family home.
We had to have done CPR for thirty minutes with no positive result before we finally had to call time of death.
He was gone. Just like that.
But he died knowing his family was safe, and I honestly don’t think the man would’ve wanted it any other way. I know I wouldn’t.
"It was," I finally say.
Potts lifts his hands, rubbing them roughly against his forehead as if he’s trying to erase the memory.
"I keep thinking..." he starts, and I already know where he’s going with his thoughts. Like I said, I’ve been there before and I see myself in Potts.
"You need to leave it here."
He looks over at me, eyebrows lifted, clearly confused by what I said. "What?"
"Leave it at the house."
He frowns.
"I can't just—"
"No. Listen to me. You have to." I point toward his chest. "If you carry every person we lose home with you…" I let out a heavy sigh. "You'll eat yourself alive."
His shoulders slump. "I just..."
"No." I cut him off before he can finish the sentence. "There wasn't anything else you could've done."
He opens his mouth to speak, but I’m not done. He needs to hear what I have to say.
"You did everything right. The proper compressions, the right dosage and amount of medications. You shocked him. You worked that call exactly how you were trained to do."
He looks down at the concrete floor of the bay before letting his head fall back, and looking up at the ceiling.
"But…” He lets out a low growl of frustration.
"There isn't a but." My voice stays calm. I don’t want him to think I’m being harsh. Potts just needs to understand that he did all he could. "Sometimes people die."
The words never feel good coming out. They aren’t supposed to. No one wants to think about the finality of death or that we didn’t do enough to keep some here on this earthly plane with us.
They aren't supposed to.
"But that's not the same thing as you failing."
Silence settles between us.
Finally, Potts lets out one long breath.
"I get that. I really do, Lawson. It’s just I can’t get his wife and grandchildren out of my head. The look on her face killed me. Made me think of my grandparents in this same situation."
"I know,” I tell him. “You’re not the only one. We’ve all been there. Still find ourselves there at times. But we’ve learned to separate ourselves from it. To accept we can only do as much as we can.”
"I keep hearing her crying,” he says softly, a slight hitch in his voice, and I know he’s fighting back tears.
I reach over and give him a solid pat on his shoulders. Just enough of a sign to let him know he's not alone.
"You'll never stop caring." I look toward the open bay doors. "And that's a good thing."
He nods slowly.
“And as time passes, you’ll learn how to separate the tragedy of our job from our lives.”
"And if I can’t?” He looks up at me.
I shrug. There’s only one answer to that question. "Then this probably isn't the career for you."
He doesn't argue and I know it’s because deep down he knows I’m right. Hell, I hope he can, because he’s a good kid, and he’ll be a great firefighter someday. A great paramedic, too. He just needs to learn to compartmentalize.
All of a sudden, out of nowhere, I hear a lot of noise. Boots are moving fast over the concrete bay floor with excited shouting erupting. There’s only one thing that can cause that, and because there’s laughter and the fire alarms aren’t going off, it can only mean one thing.
My head snaps toward the bay door and a shit-eating grin spreads across my face before she even steps into view. A quick check of my watch confirms it. Right on time as always.
Fifi comes through the bay doors with both arms completely full. Brown bakery bags in hand. Pink boxes that I know contain the most delicious treats.
The wolves descend immediately. Each of them eager to help her and to be the first to get a sweet treat. Voices erupt. All speaking at the same time, so I don't know who says what. All I can pick up are a few shouts here and there.
"She's here!"
"My hero!"
"I love you!"
"Marry me!"
"I asked first!"
"You can have my pension!"
"You don't have a pension!" That one I quickly yelled out a response to, even though for all I know he could.
"I'll get one!" Samuels shouts back and I laugh. Yep, he definitely doesn’t have one.
Laughter echoes through the station as the guys and the couple of women on shift practically trip over each other reaching for boxes while trying not to actually tackle the woman carrying all the sugar.
She laughs through the chaos. I secretly think she loves it. She even refuses to take any money from us. It doesn’t keep us from sneaking into her bakery and slipping money into her tip jar, or recommending her shop to anyone who will listen.
“You’re all animals,” she says through her cheerful laughter while she hands over the bags all but one brown one. "No shoving. There’s plenty. You'll all get something.”
"Come on." I nudge Potts with my elbow. "Let's go get some before it's gone."
For the first time since our conversation started, since we left that call, he smiles. Small, but it’s there, and that’s progress.
“Yeah, I could use a pick me up.” He stands up and we both make our way across the bay.
"Save some for me!" I call over the crowd.
Fifi glances over at me immediately, a wicked grin on her face like she’s up to no good.
One that tells me she's about to enjoy every second of what she's about to say.
"Don’t worry, Lawson, I have something special for you!
" I can feel bile rise in my throat and my pulse races.
My body shivers knowing what she has. Months of this and my reaction never changes. But maybe today is different.
She walks straight toward me with the last bag held carefully in her hand and doesn’t stop until we’re standing right in front of each other. Potts continues on with the others, leaving me and Fifi alone.
"Something special, you say? Am I getting special treatment now? It’s not my birthday.” I tilt my head, genuinely confused. "When did I become a VIP?"
"Oh, stop acting like you don't know." She shakes her head as she gives me an eye roll.
"I...don't?" Honestly, I have no clue. And if I’m supposed to, well I guess it went over my head.
“Seriously, Lawson. When do you get a special treat from me?”
Okay, maybe I do have an idea. I just don’t want to admit to knowing it.“Your secret admirer struck again." She sing-songs.
I sigh.
"Again?"
She nods far too enthusiastically.
"Coffee. And your favorite treat." She hands me the brown bag, the weight of it settling in my hands.
I peek inside and my mouth waters.
"Firefighter's Fuel." The monster cinnamon roll, boxed perfectly, practically fills the entire bag, nestled carefully beside the coffee. My mouth is already salivating thinking about the thick cream cheese frosting.
She nods. “Your admirer knows you well.”
“And are you still not going to tell me who it is?”
“Nope. It kind of takes away the secret part of it. You, my friend, are going to have to figure it out for yourself.” With that she turns and heads out of the bay giving a quick goodbye wave.
I shake my head. There’s no use arguing; she’s not going to tell me anyway. Trust me, I’ve tried.
For four months.
That’s how long this schtick has been going on.
Every week something shows up. Sometimes flowers, other times gift cards. Or a bread basket. There’s even been candles and books.
Last week it was a box of gourmet hot chocolate.
The items are always addressed to me and delivered to the firehouse. Never signed, and no one will tell me anything. If it’s not delivered, then somehow it ends up waiting at the firehouse door. But nobody has ever seen who drops it off.
If they do, they're not talking. Which makes this station completely useless. I've interrogated every firefighter here. Hell, I even asked the captain and the mailman.
Nothing.
But Fifi is different.
She definitely knows. I can see it every time I ask. That tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth and the sparkle in her eyes give her away.
I glance down at the bag again, and all I can smell is the delicious treat waiting for me.
I’m not turning it away. But I wish I knew who sent it.
One, so I can tell them thank you, and also, to stop.
The gifts, although appreciated, are not needed and they're starting to make me feel uncomfortable.
My shift is over and instead of devouring my treat here, I decide to head home.
My bed has been calling my name for the last hour.
I grab my duffel from my locker, pull the coffee out of the bag and take a sip before heading out.
The cinnamon roll I’ll eat at home, but the coffee I need to keep my eyes open.
I pause just long enough to look back. I smile seeing Potts standing with a group of guys and actually laughing. I know the memories of the call that has him so upset aren’t gone, but maybe he’s learning how to move on.
I laugh to myself as I head toward my truck. One day I'm going to figure out who's been leaving me gifts.
One day.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.