Chapter Sixteen Noah
“It’s go time, boys!” I holler as I climb up into the engine.
“Excuse me?” snap Clara and Sandy in unison.
“Boys and strong, capable women!” I correct myself.
Satisfied with the amendment, Clara flicks on the sirens, confirms there aren’t any crew members dangling precariously off the side of the truck, and sails out of the bay.
There’s a residential fire deep in Chinatown that would normally not be our response area, but it’s already started spreading to the building next door, so Station 47 has been summoned for backup.
Which means it’s finally time for me to put my latest idea into action.
I haven’t run it by Lila yet, but that’s only because we didn’t really get a chance to continue our meeting earlier. Fuck knows what her and Hale got up to once Evan and I scurried out of there.
Yet, weirdly, no matter what scenario runs through my imagination, I really can’t bring myself to feel jealous. Lila should be showered with attention from multiple men. Isn’t that what all women deserve?
If they want it, that is. If they even like men.
Like I said earlier, I’m an ally.
“The fuck are you doing, kid?” Sandy asks from beside me as soon as she’s done barking a response to the captain into her radio.
“Thank you for asking, Sandy. I’m being a genius.”
The older woman lifts an eyebrow at me, but I continue what I’m doing.
Which is, more precisely, trying to figure out how to attach my GoPro harness around the bulk of my firefighting equipment without compromising the functionality of it all.
We only have a handful of minutes until we make it to the site, since Clara usually drives this thing like she’s in a real-life game of Grand Theft Auto, and I refuse to let this brilliant idea of mine fuck up my response time.
When I get the durable little camera secured to my chest, I grin.
“I’m going to livestream it,” I tell Sandy, fumbling for my phone. It’ll stay in the truck, of course, but I can connect my TikTok account to the GoPro and go live.
Just yesterday, I overheard Lila on a call with her coworker Lou, talking about how the fundraising page had hit a plateau. It’s definitely Banks’ fault. With all his ranting and raving about cutting off our funding, why would people be motivated to provide us with private funds?
Of course, Save A Hero and all the other content that Lila has gathered is geared toward showing the public that the people of Station 47 are capable, respectable, and dutiful.
We’re focused on saving lives and supporting a safe community more than anything else, as proven by the three main episodes.
But what better way to prove to the people of New York that Station 47 are their dedicated servants than to take them right into the thick of things?
I just had to wait for the right moment, and when the alarms went off to summon us to respond to a big blaze, I knew it was time.
“And we’re live!” I exclaim.
“Don’t you dare get me on camera, boy,” Sandy warns me.
Obediently, I angle my body away from her, instead showing a stream of the city through the engine’s front windshield.
“That, ladies and gentlemen and everyone in between and beyond, was my lovely fellow firefighter, Sandy, who is currently with me in Engine 3 responding to a fire down in Chinatown,” I say into the GoPro, hoping it picks up on my voice despite the cacophony of noise coming from all directions.
“And I’m Noah Trent. I’ll be taking you right into the action, showing you all what it’s really like to be a New York City firefighter.
It’s the best job in the world, and it’s an honor to get to do it. ”
Clara chuckles behind the wheel. “You got a big heart, Trent.”
“Good thing he does, too,” mutters Sandy. “Balances out his small—”
“And what a joy it is to be live right now,” I quickly interrupt, shooting Sandy a look. “Showing everyone who tunes in every single thing that’s happening.”
Sandy scoffs. “Brain. I was going to say small brain.”
“Sure you were,” laughs Clara.
But as soon as we arrive on the scene, the time for laughter and smiles is over. I let all thoughts of the GoPro and the livestream drift away as I throw myself out of the engine a few seconds before we’ve fully stopped.
Organized chaos reigns.
The first floor of a classic brick apartment building is glowing with flames, and the second floor has started to smoke up from what I can glimpse through the windows.
Worse than that, however, is the fact that the first floor of the building to the left of it is also smoking up, thick and black and menacing, which means the fire has already eaten through the adjoined wall in at least one area.
Dozens of residents have already been evacuated, and many more from Chinatown’s FDNY crew are being carefully guided down the fire escapes of the smokeless building on the other side. They were likely pushed to the higher floors by the smoke, and some are even peering down from the rooftop.
I spot Hargrove jogging toward Chinatown’s captain, who is giving orders to tap the nearest fire hydrant. I hurry over.
“—couple of civilians still inside,” the other captain is saying.
“It’s my wife and son!” shouts a man nearby, currently being held back by another firefighter so that he doesn’t go racing right into the flames. “Apartment 1D! The back of the building! They’re trapped!”
“What he said,” confirms the other captain.
Hargrove claps me on the shoulder. He doesn’t need to say anything. With a nod, we head in.
At first, it’s all smoke. I forget about the camera strapped to my chest, forget about everything except following my captain’s lead, listening to my instincts, and relying on my training.
The main fire seems to have caught in the front left apartment. The hallway is dense with smoke, and I double-check that my oxygen is on. Together, Hargrove and I maneuver smoothly around a low blanket of flames catching fast on the outdated carpeting.
“Electrical fire,” comes crackling through on my radio. “It’s in the walls.”
“Shit,” I say out loud, though not even Hargrove can hear me right now.
The door to 1D is at the end of the hall, and it’s hanging wide open. Hargrove heads in first.
Inside, fire is already chewing up the cheap, brittle plaster on the left side of the apartment. Wires spark in the smoky dimness where they’ve been exposed.
Suffice to say, that’s pretty bad.
Luckily, we find the civilians easily. It’s a tiny apartment, and it only takes us a minute to search the kitchen, the bedroom, and the living room before we share a look to confirm that the last place to look is the bathroom, which is currently guarded by a sizable blaze.
They must have been shut in there while the fire grew, and by the time they realized they had to get out, the doorknob was too hot to touch.
Hargrove, unbothered by the flames, reaches right through the fire and yanks open the door.
There’s a woman huddled on the bathmat, cradling a boy who must be three or four years old to her chest. He’s swaddled in a towel printed with cartoon ducklings and is wearing blue pajama pants, clearly having been in the middle of bath time when the fire started.
The woman starts sobbing the moment she sees us.
Hargrove stoops and reaches for her son.
Her instincts tell her to fight back, holding on tight to the boy for a few seconds before her mind catches up and reminds her that we’re here to help.
The boy is already crying, but the captain is unbothered as he hands the kid off to me.
“It’s okay! It’ll be okay. I’ve got you,” I say to the kid, though it probably sounds freaky through the scary helmet on my head—if he can even hear me in the first place.
Hargrove helps the woman up. She seems to be having a full-blown panic attack, which means it takes him only a handful of seconds to decide it’s more efficient to carry her out.
I turn to go. The kid starts screaming at the top of his lungs, repeating the same syllables over and over. He kicks me as if trying to get down, reaching back toward Hargrove and the woman, who are now behind me.
“My mom,” he must be shouting.
“It’s okay, buddy,” I try to tell him, holding him tight against me so the flames don’t get him as I carefully navigate out of the apartment. “Everything is going to be okay.”
The boy screams the entire way out, fighting me with all his toddler strength. I can’t really blame him. I look pretty scary when I’m all geared up.
Outside, the father comes rushing forward. He takes the boy from me. I rip my helmet off as soon as my arms are free and gulp down real oxygen.
Hargrove carries the woman to the opposite side of the street, where Reyes and a Chinatown EMT are already waiting to treat her.
I glance down at the GoPro, the red light indicating that it’s still going.
I scan the vicinity, ensuring that I’m not urgently needed, then explain for whatever online audience has gathered, “Not every response we’re called to is that dramatic, but as you can see, we’re quick and efficient and we never miss a—”
“Trent! The kid! The fucking kid!”
I whirl around at the sound of Sandy’s shout, my stomach dropping when I realize what I’m looking at. She’s currently working in tandem with another firefighter to hold back the father once again, who has lost his grip on his son and is desperately trying to go after him.
The toddler is more agile than any reasonable person would expect, and is running right back into the burning building.
I’m closest, so I shove my helmet back on, not caring to secure the oxygen mask properly before I run at full speed and dive back into the inferno.
I catch up to the kid when he’s already halfway down the hall. He shrieks so loud when I grab him that I think I go deaf for a few seconds. His tiny foot lands an impressive kick dangerously close to my groin, and he starts screaming those same two syllables again.
“Your mom is outside!” I say to him, trying to drag him back to safety. “Your mom is safe!”
“My dog!” hollers the boy.
“Dog? You have a dog in there? A real dog?”
The boy takes advantage of my temporary confusion and manages to wriggle loose from my arms. He lands hard on the carpet and then rockets off inhumanly fast. I catch him again at the threshold to 1D.
By some miracle, Old Bill has materialized behind me. I hand off the kid to him and, ignoring Old Bill’s protests, dive right back into the fiery apartment. Thankfully, the kid doesn’t manage to break free again.
In a matter of minutes, it’s gotten exponentially worse in here. I fumble to secure my oxygen, but still end up wheezing when the smoke tickles my lungs.
I search the apartment, straining my ears.
Then I hear it—a whining so high-pitched that my ears barely picked up on it. I follow the sound to the bedroom. It’s sparsely furnished and has mostly been spared from the fire so far.
Dropping to the floor, I locate the source of the whining.
A small, floppy-eared puppy is huddled in a tiny ball underneath the bed.
I reach under, grab it by the scruff of the neck, and drag it out.
The poor thing goes limp with terror, and I’m pretty sure it’s already peed itself.
I forego protocol and yank open my jacket, shoving the puppy inside, and then hurry back out of the room
I have to dodge a spray of sparks on my way to the hall, but then I’m outside. In the back of my mind, I register Hargrove giving the all clear signal.
“Why the fuck isn’t the building’s power shut off yet!?” he bellows furiously, ignoring the street full of onlookers.
A crew heads in with specialized extinguishers designed for electrical fires, since you can’t just throw water on top of live wires.
I head toward the careless father, who is still trying to keep his son from running back toward the disaster.
Chucking off my helmet, I hurry toward the kid and crouch down.
“I got him, buddy.” I pull the puppy from my jacket. “He’s alright.”
I only partially notice the gasps and applause from the crowd when they spot the dog and finally understand the reason behind the drama that just unfolded. The whole thing happened in the course of maybe five minutes, but I feel like I just lived five entire lifetimes.
The boy scoops the trembling puppy into his skinny arms. The father starts crying at that point, too. He stutters out a few dozen thank-yous, to which I smile and nod while trying to remain alert to the active scene behind me.
But that, I think, is probably the most appropriate moment to shut down the livestream. Because I may have just saved two little lives, but I still fucked up big time by letting my attention drift for that brief handful of seconds.
In a perfect world, however, the people who tuned in to the livestream won’t realize that.
Alas, we do not live in a perfect world.