12. Wes
WES
Saturday morning at the station carries its own lazy rhythm.
The smell of scorched coffee, a familiar and bitter perfume, hangs thick in the air.
Boots scrape against the worn linoleum floor.
Down the hall, a low argument unfolds over some botched football play from last night’s game.
It’s the same as every other weekend shift. A slow burn of waiting.
But it’s not the same.
My chair legs screech a complaint against the floor as I push back. Enough waiting. I need to move.
In the truck bay, the engine looms, a red and chrome giant resting in its stall. The massive doors are rolled up, letting in a draft of cool, damp air that smells of wet pavement. I grab a clean rag from the supply closet and start with the basics.
The door handle gleams under my hand. I polish the chrome until my reflection stares back, sharp and distorted.
I move along the side panel, my arm making long, deliberate strokes, wiping away invisible dust. Every movement is a practiced rhythm, a way to burn off the excess energy that has nowhere else to go. This is just work. This is what we do.
I pop a side compartment. My eyes scan the neatly coiled hoses and gleaming brass fittings.
Everything is in its place, just as it was yesterday.
I check the pressure gauge on a portable extinguisher.
The needle sits solidly in the green. I check it again.
It doesn’t move. I move to the next compartment, my hand brushing over the pry bars, the axes, the K-12 saw.
Each tool secure in its bracket. I find a strap and tighten it, the nylon groaning as I pull, even though it was already taut.
This is just maintenance. Keeping things tight. Keeping things ready. That’s all.
My knuckles graze a stack of spare turnout coats tossed onto a workbench, the rough fabric a familiar anchor.
My gaze drifts past the truck, scanning the wide, open bay.
It’s our space. An organized mess of function and haste.
In one corner, a pallet of bagged absorbent sits next to a tangle of spent hose waiting for a deep clean.
A discarded boot lies on its side like a casualty of a late-night shift change.
I find my feet moving. I grab the boot, its sole caked with dried mud, and toss it into the gear locker where it belongs.
I start coiling the hoses, the thick canvas resisting before falling into neat loops at my feet.
A portable radio on the charging station crackles with the low-grade static of an open channel.
The volume is high, a constant drone we’ve all learned to tune out.
My hand finds the knob and twists. The sudden quiet is startling, leaving only the sound of a distant siren and the drip of water from the wash bay.
I haul a heavy-duty fan, its metal cage dusty, out of the main walkway and shove it against the wall, clearing a wide, unobstructed path from the front doors to the engine. It’s just clutter. Just stuff in the way.
A low chuckle cuts through the silence.
Tate leans against the rig’s massive front grille, arms crossed over the faded logo on his t-shirt. An amused glint in his eyes tells me he’s been watching for a while, letting me spin myself up in this little whirlwind of activity.
“You planning to pass inspection, or impress somebody?”
The rag in my hand stops its motion on a spotless chrome panel. I don’t look at him. I just keep my eyes fixed on my own distorted reflection. I resume wiping.
My shoulders tense.
“Place looks like crap.” I give the chrome one last vicious swipe. “Can’t have people thinking we’re a bunch of slobs, can we?”
I toss the rag onto the workbench. The explanation lingers between us, thin and meaningless.
Tate just nods, his expression unreadable.
He pushes off the grill and walks away, his boots echoing in the quiet bay, leaving me alone with the half-polished engine.
He knows. Of course, he knows. That’s the worst part.
The quiet that settles now is heavier. The energy that drove me a minute ago drains away, leaving an empty space in my gut.
My hands find the cool, painted edge of the truck bed, fingers gripping the metal ridge.
I lean my weight on my arms, my head bowed.
The smell of diesel and steel fills my lungs.
The image flashes behind my eyes, sharp and unsolicited.
The kid. The small body curled up, then uncurling to cling to his mother’s legs.
A lifeline. I see Tate’s easy calm, the way he just knew what to do, a language I understand but can’t speak.
And her. The mom. Jordyn. Her face a twisted mask of raw terror that cracked just enough to show the sheer will holding her upright. Barely. A frayed knot about to snap.
My knuckles turn white against the red paint.
I don’t do this. I don’t get tangled. The job is simple.
You go in, you put the fire out, you come home.
Family is different, but that’s blood. That’s a given.
This… this is something else. A flicker of that same instinct that makes me run into a burning building coils in my chest, but it’s aimed at them.
At her. At the whole damn situation. Responsibility I don’t want. Attachment I can’t afford.
So why does this one feel like both?
The bay doors groan to life, their heavy metal panels climbing toward the ceiling with mechanical precision.
Sunlight slices through the opening in sharp, geometric lines, cutting the concrete floor into a grid of light and shadow.
The contrast is stark—harsh brightness bleeding into our carefully controlled space, transforming the familiar into something foreign.
I straighten without thinking, my spine pulling taut like a wire under tension. My hands release their grip on the truck bed, fingers flexing as blood rushes back into my knuckles. The rag I'd been clutching falls to the floor with a soft thud.
My eyes lock onto the entrance before my brain catches up to the movement.
Like I've been programmed. Like I've been waiting for this exact moment, though I'd never admit it out loud.
The restless energy that had me polishing chrome and rearranging equipment crystallizes into something sharper. Something focused.
Behind me, Tate's footsteps slow to a stop. The casual rhythm of his approach shifts, becomes deliberate. He feels it too—this charge in the air, the way the ordinary Saturday morning has suddenly tilted sideways into something else entirely.
The doors continue their upward climb, revealing more of the parking lot beyond. A battered sedan sits near the curb, its paint job a patchwork of primer and rust. Nothing special about it. Nothing that should make my pulse kick up a notch.
But it does.
The engine bay fills with the sounds of the outside world—distant traffic, the hum of air conditioning units, a dog barking somewhere down the block. Normal sounds. Weekend sounds. The kind of background noise that usually fades into nothing.
Today, every sound feels amplified. Important.
My jaw tightens as I watch the car doors swing open.
This isn't routine maintenance anymore. This isn't just another Saturday at the station, killing time between calls.
Whatever's about to walk through those doors is going to change things.
I can feel it in the way my shoulders bunch, in the way my breathing shifts from steady to expectant.
Tate moves up beside me, close enough that I detect the familiar scent of his soap and the lingering smell of coffee on his breath. His presence is steady, grounding, but there's an alertness in his posture that mirrors my own. We're both watching. Both waiting.
The sunlight continues to pour in, turning the concrete beneath our feet into a checkerboard of brightness and shade. The boundary between inside and outside dissolves, leaving us exposed. Visible. Ready or not.
My hands curl into loose fists at my sides. Whatever's coming, I'm done pretending I don't want to see it.