Chapter Four
Jasper
Twenty-four-hour shifts created a strange relationship with time because entire days could disappear inside a cycle of emergency calls, station responsibilities, interrupted meals, and brief periods of quiet that rarely lasted as long as anyone hoped.
When people outside the profession learned about our schedule, they often focused on the twenty-four hours spent on duty and overlooked the forty-eight hours that followed.
The arrangement sounded straightforward when explained in simple terms, but the reality was considerably more complicated because the body did not always cooperate with neat scheduling.
Some shifts passed relatively quietly and allowed firefighters to leave the station feeling rested.
Others delivered enough activity to make twenty-four hours feel twice as long.
Winter weather continued creating problems across the South Loop and surrounding neighborhoods, which meant emergency services remained busy dealing with the consequences.
The rhythm of the job was familiar enough that none of us wasted energy complaining about it.
Instead, we focused on the responsibilities directly in front of us and trusted experience to carry us through whatever the next dispatch might bring.
Lieutenant Cody Norris occupied one of the nearby chairs reviewing reports from earlier incidents while occasionally contributing to whatever conversation happened to be taking place.
He possessed the rare ability to maintain authority without dominating every interaction, which was one of the reasons people respected him.
The station functioned efficiently under his leadership because he trusted his crew to perform their jobs and expected them to take responsibility for their decisions.
The approach created accountability without suffocating initiative, and in emergency services that balance mattered.
Firefighters needed clear leadership, but they also needed the confidence to act independently when circumstances demanded it.
The nickname that followed me through the station came up during one of those conversations in the same way it always seemed to.
Someone from Engine 99 was recounting an incident involving a new recruit who had struggled during a difficult medical call, which eventually led to a discussion about memorable moments from earlier years.
Nicknames were common in firehouses because spending long hours together naturally encouraged them, and most people eventually acquired one whether they wanted it or not. Mine had originated nearly a decade earlier during a chaotic rescue involving multiple casualties after a structural collapse.
Several patients were found to be in critical condition, communication had been difficult, and one of the paramedics working alongside us had jokingly claimed I could find a pulse on a stone statue if given enough time.
The comment spread through the station faster than I would have preferred.
Before long people had shortened the observation into a single word, and eventually almost everyone working around me began using it.
There were certainly worse nicknames available in the fire service, so I had learned to tolerate it.
"You know, most people spend years trying to earn a nickname."
The comment came from one of the firefighters sitting across the room.
"I spent years trying to get rid of it," I admitted.
My response earned several laughs.
"You never had a chance."
Lieutenant Norris glanced up from his paperwork.
"At least yours makes sense."
The conversation continued for several minutes before naturally shifting toward other subjects.
Firehouse discussions rarely remained focused on one topic for long because too many personalities occupied the same building.
Stories led to memories. Memories led to arguments about details and arguments led to entirely different conversations.
It was part of the culture, and after years in the profession I found the familiarity comforting.
No matter how difficult individual shifts became, there was reassurance in knowing that certain things remained consistent.
Later in the evening another series of calls carried us away from the station and back into the storm.
A residential alarm turned out to be a faulty detector triggered by weather-related electrical issues.
A medical emergency required assistance from Rescue 3 because of difficult access conditions inside an apartment building and a disabled vehicle blocking traffic needed support while police managed the surrounding roadway.
None of the incidents approached the severity of the collision from earlier that morning, yet they demanded the same level of professionalism because every emergency mattered to the people experiencing it.
By the time we finally returned to Firehouse 99, fatigue had begun settling into muscles that were accustomed to long shifts but not entirely immune to them.
The storm showed little sign of weakening, and weather forecasts suggested difficult conditions would continue throughout the night. Experience told us there would be more calls before morning arrived. Experience also told us there was no value in worrying about calls that hadn’t happened yet.
Sometime after midnight, while completing reports in one of the administrative offices, I found my attention drifting briefly toward the collision that had started the day.
The memory surfaced unexpectedly while I worked, returning without the urgency that had surrounded the original incident but refusing to disappear completely.
We encountered injured people every shift.
We met strangers during some of the worst moments of their lives every shift.
Professional distance existed for a reason.
Without it, firefighters would carry every tragedy, every injury, and every difficult outcome home with them.
That burden eventually became impossible to manage.
Understanding that reality did not prevent me from wondering how the teacher was doing.
Had the hospital confirmed the extent of her injuries?
Did she have family or friends helping her navigate the situation?
The questions appeared briefly and then disappeared again beneath more immediate responsibilities.
Reports required completion. Equipment required inspection.
The shift continued moving forward regardless of where my curiosity wanted to linger.
Morning arrived slowly, accompanied by gray skies and a city still buried beneath snow but the storm had abated.
The final hours of a twenty-four-hour shift often felt different from the beginning because fatigue softened the edges of conversation and encouraged everyone to focus on reaching the finish line.
Breakfast appeared in the station kitchen shortly after sunrise, and firefighters drifted toward the smell of coffee and food with the predictable enthusiasm of people who had spent the previous day responding to emergencies.
Shared meals remained one of the constants of firehouse life because they created opportunities to reconnect after hours spent moving in different directions.
Members of Ladder 99 joined us briefly before heading toward their own responsibilities, while conversations moved comfortably between weather updates, sports results, and predictions about how many calls the next shift would inherit.
Listening to the discussion while eating breakfast reminded me once again why firefighters often described their coworkers as family.
We spent holidays together, endured difficult incidents together, and trusted one another during situations where mistakes carried serious consequences.
Bonds formed under those conditions tended to last.
The shift change process began shortly afterward as incoming personnel arrived and outgoing crews completed final responsibilities before heading home.
One advantage of the twenty-four-on, forty-eight-off schedule was the knowledge that a period of recovery always waited at the end of demanding shifts.
The downside was that the body sometimes needed a significant portion of that recovery period simply to return to normal.
I completed the last of my paperwork, participated in turnover discussions, and prepared to leave the station. Under ordinary circumstances I would have headed directly home, spent several hours sleeping, and ignored the world until sometime later in the afternoon. That plan remained appealing.
Nevertheless, as I gathered my gear and prepared to leave, a familiar thought surfaced once again.
The teacher from the collision remained at Chicago General, probably facing a difficult day filled with medical decisions and unpleasant realities.
There was no practical reason for that knowledge to matter.
There was certainly no professional reason to act on it. Even so, the awareness remained.
The drive home took longer than usual because snow continued creating challenges throughout the city.
Roads were improving gradually, but evidence of the storm remained visible almost everywhere.
Vehicles moved cautiously, snowbanks occupied portions of sidewalks and crews worked steadily to clear affected areas.
Chicago had endured countless winters, and eventually the city would absorb this storm the same way it absorbed every other challenge. Looking at the streets through that perspective made the collision feel strangely small within the larger context of everything happening around it.
Thousands of people were beginning ordinary days.
Businesses were opening. Schools were operating.
Families were navigating routines. Life moved forward.
Perhaps the knowledge should have encouraged me to leave the incident where it belonged, alongside countless other calls that ended once patients reached definitive care.
Instead, it produced the opposite effect because it reminded me that inside Chicago General there was a woman whose ordinary life had been interrupted without warning.
By the time I reached my loft apartment, exhaustion had become impossible to ignore. The building sat only a short drive from Firehouse 99, one of the reasons I’d chosen it several years earlier. Long shifts encouraged practical decisions, and reducing commute times fell firmly into that category.
After carrying my gear upstairs, I stepped inside the apartment and was greeted by the familiar quiet that always followed active shifts.
Living alone suited me. The arrangement allowed for simplicity, predictability, and the absence of unnecessary complications.
Some people found the solitude difficult. I appreciated it.
Large windows overlooked portions of the city, the gym occupied an important place in my daily routine, and the overall space reflected a lifestyle built around work more than anything else.
Friends occasionally suggested I should invest more effort into developing interests outside the gym and fire service, but those conversations rarely produced meaningful change.
The job and my exercise routine demanded commitment, and commitment often shaped the rest of a person's life.
After showering and changing clothes, I attempted to settle into the recovery routine that usually followed long shifts. Sleep should have come easily. Physically, I was exhausted enough to fall asleep almost anywhere. Unfortunately, fatigue didn’t always cooperate with expectation.
My thoughts drifted through fragments of the previous day, lingering occasionally on moments that seemed insignificant yet refused to disappear entirely.
Among those memories was the image of a red-haired teacher trying very hard not to show how frightened she’d been while trapped inside a wrecked vehicle.
The recollection surfaced unexpectedly and remained long enough to irritate me.
"Let it go."
The words were spoken aloud to an empty apartment.
Nobody answered.
To be expected.
Eventually I stretched out on the couch, choosing it over bed, and closed my eyes, determined to get the sleep my body clearly needed.
Before exhaustion finally pulled me under, one final thought crossed my mind.
I hoped the doctors had been able to help Aurora.
It was a simple wish, no different from the countless hopes firefighters carried for patients after leaving scenes behind.
At least that was what I told myself as sleep finally arrived and ended the longest shift of the week.