They Made Sure to Mention That. Again. #2
"What if someone had died because of my call?" I whispered. "What if I'd been wrong and Stevens or Jackson or Miller or even Davids or Emerson had burned to death because I panicked?"
"But they didn't. They're alive. You're alive.
" She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to mine.
"I know it doesn't feel like enough right now.
I know you're carrying the weight of those six houses like crosses on your back.
But, Petra, you saved six lives, including your own.
Six actual human beings who get to go home to their families, who get to keep living and loving and existing in this world. That has to count for something."
It did count for something. Intellectually, I knew that. But the knowledge felt distant, separated from me by layers of guilt and shame and the persistent image of that man's face, twisted with grief and rage.
Vera pulled me into her arms as much as the car's center console would allow, and I buried my face in her neck, breathing in her familiar scent, letting it anchor me. Her hand stroked through my hair, gentle and soothing, while my body slowly stopped its violent trembling.
"I'm sorry," I said into her skin.
"For what?"
"For dragging you into this. For making you defend me in public. For—"
"Perpetua Alves, if you apologize one more time for being the person I fell in love with, I swear I will become significantly less patient.
" Her voice was teasing, but there was real emotion underneath it.
"I defended you because I love you. Because you're worth defending.
And I would do it again in a heartbeat, a thousand times over, to anyone who tried to make you believe otherwise. "
Something in my nerves loosened, just slightly. Not enough to fix everything, not enough to make the guilt disappear or the suspension any less real. But enough to let me breathe a little easier.
"I love you," I said quietly.
"I know. And I love you, baby." She pressed a kiss to my temple. "Now let's go home."
"We still need groceries."
"We'll order delivery. I'm not letting you go back into that store today."
I almost argued. Almost insisted I could handle it, that I couldn't let one confrontation break me. But the truth was, I was broken. Had been broken since the moment I'd walked out of Station 19 with my gear in a box and my career in shambles. And maybe it was okay to admit that, just for today.
"Okay," I said. "Let's go home."
Home turned into a cage I'd built myself.
I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw flames licking at the ridge, heard Rodriguez's voice ordering us to hold position, felt the heat of Stevens' blood on my hands when I'd helped pull him from the wreckage of his gear.
When I did manage to drift off, the nightmares came.
Twisted versions of that day where I made different choices, where I listened to Rodriguez and we all burned, where Stevens died in my arms while I apologized over and over for not acting sooner.
Food became an abstraction. Vera would make meals, beautiful meals that smelled amazing and should have made my mouth water, but when I looked at them all I could see was that man's face in the grocery store, hear him saying better you than six families losing everything.
I spent hours on my laptop, reading every article, every comment section, every social media post about the fire.
It was like pressing on a bruise, checking to see if it still hurt, knowing it would but unable to stop myself.
The internet had decided I was guilty; reckless at best, criminally negligent at worst. People who'd never fought a fire in their lives were explaining in excruciating detail what I should have done differently, how I'd failed, why I deserved to lose my job.
A few voices defended me. Rodriguez's official statement was neutral, but mentioned my eight years of exemplary service.
A firefighter from another station in Phoenix wrote a thoughtful piece about split-second decisions in changing conditions.
But those voices were drowned out by the chorus of condemnation, buried under the weight of collective outrage.
Vera tried. God, she tried.
She'd bring me food, sit with me while I picked at it, eventually give up and just make sure I ate something, anything, even if it was just a protein bar and coffee.
She'd close my laptop, pull me away from the screen, suggest we watch a movie or read together or go for a walk.
Sometimes I'd agree, would let her distract me for an hour or two.
But then I'd drift back to the spiral, back to the endless loop of second-guessing and self-recrimination.
On the fourth day, I decided to visit Stevens.
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and suffering, that particular blend of cleaning products and pain that made my skin crawl.
I'd spent enough time in military hospitals after Afghanistan to have developed an aversion to the scent, to the fluorescent lights, to the hushed voices of nurses moving between rooms like ghosts.
Stevens was in a private room on the third floor. The bandages covering his arms and chest were stark white against the pale blue hospital gown, and the sight of them made my stomach turn. Burns, second degree. All because I'd called for an evacuation that got them caught in the firestorm.
"Hey, boss," he said when I appeared in the doorway, his voice rough but surprisingly strong.
"Hey, kid." I stepped inside, suddenly uncertain. "How you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a truck made of fire." He tried to smile, but pain flickered across his young face. "But the docs say I'll heal up fine. Scars, but nothing that'll keep me off the crew permanently."
I moved closer to the bed, taking in the extent of the bandages, the IV line running into his arm, the monitors tracking his vitals. He was twenty-three years old. Should've been invincible. Instead, he was lying in a hospital bed with burns covering ten percent of his body.
"I'm sorry," I said quietly, the words inadequate and useless. "Stevens, I'm so—"
"Don't." He cut me off, his expression turning serious. "Don't apologize, boss. You saved my life."
The words hit me like a punch. "I got you hurt."
"You got me out." He shifted in the bed, wincing slightly. "Cap was pissed at the time—still is, probably—but you made the right choice. That fire turned fast, faster than anyone predicted. If we'd stayed on that line..." He trailed off, but we both knew how that sentence ended.
"You're in a hospital bed," I said, my voice hard. "You're bandaged and burned and—"
"And alive." He looked at me with those earnest young eyes, with absolute conviction. "I'm alive, Petra. Miller's alive. Jackson's alive. Emerson and Davids are alive. We all got out because you trusted your gut and called it."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to let his words sink in and absolve me of the guilt I'd been carrying. But all I could see were his bandages, hear the barely concealed pain in his voice when he breathed, imagine what those burns must feel like under the sterile white gauze.
He was saying thank you, I thought, replaying the conversation in my mind. But all I could see were his bandages, hear the pain in his voice when he breathed. He was hurt because of me.
"Boss?" Stevens said, pulling me back to the present. "You still with me?"
"Yeah." I forced myself to meet his eyes. "Yeah, I'm here."
"Good. Because I need you to hear this." He struggled to sit up straighter, and I instinctively moved to help him, adjusting his pillows.
"You're the best forewoman Rodriguez has ever had.
Everyone knows it, even the guys who are too stupid to admit it.
You saved us. Don't let the backwards agency and the media and the people who weren't there make you forget that. "
My throat tightened. "Thanks, kid."
"Anytime, boss."
I stayed a little longer, talking about nothing important. The food, the nurses, when he thought he'd be discharged. Normal conversation that felt surreal in the sterile hospital room. When I finally stood to leave, he called after me.
"Petra?"
I turned back.
"Come back soon, yeah? It gets boring as hell in here."
I managed a smile. "I will."
I was almost to the elevators when I heard footsteps behind me, quick and purposeful.
"Wait. Please wait."
I turned to find a woman in her fifties, dark hair streaked with gray, wearing jeans and a University of Arizona sweatshirt. Her eyes were red-rimmed but fierce, and I knew before she said anything that this was Stevens' mother.
"I should go," I said immediately, already turning away. The last thing I needed was another confrontation, another person telling me I'd destroyed their family member's life.
"Wait," she repeated, more urgently this time.
I stopped, my muscles tensing for the inevitable anger. But when I turned to face her, she wasn't wearing the expression I expected. Wasn't glaring at me with rage or grief or accusation.
She was crying.
Before I could process what was happening, she closed the distance between us and wrapped her arms around me in a fierce hug. I stood there frozen, my arms hanging uselessly at my sides, unable to understand what was happening.
"Thank you," she said into my shoulder, her voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for bringing my son home."
Something inside me just… broke.
All the composure I'd been holding onto, all the carefully maintained control that had kept me functioning through the visit, fractured and fell away, leaving me raw and exposed.
My knees buckled, and suddenly I was sliding down the wall, Mrs. Stevens coming down with me, both of us crying in the sterile hospital hallway while nurses and visitors streamed past, carefully not looking at the breakdown happening in their peripheral vision.
"I'm sorry," I gasped out between sobs. "I'm so sorry he got hurt. I'm sorry about the burns, about the pain, about everything.”