Chapter 4 - Max
I'm not usually a breakfast-after-shift kind of guy. Normally, I head straight home, fall face-first into bed, and resurface somewhere around dinner time. But today, my truck somehow found its way to Lou's Diner without conscious direction from my brain.
Nothing to do with the new waitress, of course. Just hungry after a long night shift.
The lie doesn't even convince me as I watch Jennie move between tables. There's something graceful about her movements. No wasted energy. She's clearly done this work before.
"More coffee, Max?" she asks, returning to the counter with the pot.
"Please," I reply, pushing my mug toward her. "Busy night."
"Anything exciting?" She pours with a steady hand, dark liquid streaming perfectly without a drop spilled.
"Just a medical call around 2 AM. Elderly gentleman with chest pains. Otherwise, paperwork and equipment checks."
"Is he okay? The gentleman?"
I nod, appreciating that her first question is about the patient's welfare. "Looks like indigestion, but they took him in to be safe. His wife was pretty scared."
"That must be one of the harder parts," she observes. "Seeing people at their most vulnerable."
"It is," I agree, surprised by her insight. "But also one of the most meaningful. People trust us on their worst days."
She tilts her head slightly, studying me. "I never thought about it that way."
"Most people don't." I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "They think it's all about running into burning buildings and rescuing kittens from trees."
"Do you actually do that? The kitten thing?"
"Twice last year," I admit with a grin. "Same cat, too. Mrs. Fincher's tabby has adventure in his blood."
Jennie laughs, the sound making several heads turn. I get the impression she doesn't laugh often, which is a shame because it makes her look even more gorgeous.
"Order up!" Lou calls from the kitchen window.
"That's yours," Jennie says, setting down the coffee pot. "Be right back."
I watch her retrieve my omelet, exchanging a few words with Lou that make the gruff cook nod approvingly. She's fitting in already, finding her place in the familiar rhythm of the diner. It's good to see.
"Here you go," she says, setting the plate before me. "Egg-white omelet with spinach and mushrooms, wheat toast, and fruit cup. Can I get you anything else?"
"This is perfect, thanks."
She starts to turn away, then hesitates. "I, um... I wanted to thank you again for yesterday. Mrs. Gunderson is wonderful, and it seems she has mentioned me to the cottage owner already. I might get to see it tomorrow."
"That's great," I say, genuinely pleased for her. "The Beaumont cottage is in a nice area. Quiet street, but close enough to town that you could walk to work on nice days."
"That's what I'm hoping." She fiddles with her order pad. "Anyway, I'll let you eat in peace."
As she moves to check on her other tables, I dig into my omelet, watching her out of the corner of my eye. There's something about Jennie that intrigues me beyond the obvious attraction—a resilience wrapped in wariness.
I recognize the careful way she holds herself, the quick assessments she makes of everyone who enters the diner, the way she maintains space between herself and most customers, especially men.
I've seen it before in people who've been hurt, who've learned to expect the worst. Hell, I've seen it in myself.
"Food okay?" Lou asks, appearing suddenly at the pass-through window.
I give him a thumbs-up around a mouthful of omelet.
"Good," he grunts. "Your new waitress is working out."
"Not my waitress," I correct after swallowing.
Lou gives me a knowing look that I choose to ignore. "She's a hard worker. Said she's got experience from a place in Minneapolis."
That fits with my theory that she's come from somewhere bigger, possibly running from something—or someone. Not that it's my business.
"Good find, then," I say neutrally.
"Hmm." Lou narrows his eyes at me. "Just remember some of us have to work with her every day. Don't make it weird."
"Why would I make it weird?" I protest, but Lou has already retreated to his kitchen, apparently having said his piece.
I finish my breakfast, leave a substantial tip weighted down by my empty mug, and catch Jennie's eye as I prepare to depart.
"Thanks," I say, gesturing to my empty plate. "Best omelet in town."
"The only omelet in town," she corrects with a small smile.
"The only one worth paying for” I add.
Her laugh follows me out the door, and I find myself smiling all the way to my truck. It's only when I'm halfway home that I realize I never asked when she'd be working next or if she needs help looking at the Beaumont cottage.
Not that I should be involving myself further. Jennie made it through life before Max Davidson stumbled into it; she'll be fine without my continued assistance. Besides, I still have a strict policy against complications.
As I pull into my apartment complex, my phone buzzes with a text from Chief Brock: *Monthly inspection drill tomorrow, 1400 hours. Full gear check and review.*
I send back a thumbs-up emoji and drag myself up the stairs to my unit. My spartan apartment welcomes me as I kick off my boots and strip down to boxers on my way to the bedroom. The blackout curtains are already drawn, and I fall into bed with the ease of someone who can sleep anytime, anywhere—a necessary skill for firefighters.
But instead of immediately drifting off, I find myself thinking about Jennie's smile when she talked about Amelia being happy at Mrs. Gunderson's. The genuine relief in her voice when she mentioned the cottage possibility. The careful way she keeps most people at arm's length.
What happened to make her that way? And why do I care so much about a woman I barely know?
The questions follow me into sleep, where my dreams are a confused mixture of burning buildings, garden gnomes, and a woman's laugh that sounds like sunlight breaking through clouds.
The next day
The inspection drill has us all at the station by 2 PM, turnout gear laid out in precise rows for Chief Brock's critical eye. The ritual is familiar—checking every seam, strap, and clasp of our protective equipment, testing radios and lights, inspecting our SCBA masks and tanks.
"Davidson," Brock calls, his voice carrying across the apparatus bay. "The reflective trim on your jacket is showing wear. Put in for a replacement."
"Yes, sir," I acknowledge, making a note on my checklist.
The chief is meticulous about our gear and with good reason. In a structure fire, our equipment is all that stands between us and serious injury or death.
Lewis sidles up next to me as we move on to checking our hand tools. "So," he begins casually, "I met your diner girl yesterday."
"Not my diner girl," I reply automatically, testing the edge of my axe.
"Seemed nice," Lewis continues, ignoring my correction. "Ollis thought so as well."
I focus intently on my equipment check. "Why are we talking about this?"
"Because you haven't shown interest in anyone beyond casual hookups in all the years I've known you," Lewis says bluntly. "And suddenly you're playing tour guide and matchmaker with Mrs. G."
"I was being neighborly," I insist. "She's new in town with a kid. Needed help. End of story."
"Uh-huh." Lewis sounds entirely unconvinced.
"There is nothing between us," I say firmly. "And even if there were—which there isn't—It would be between me and her."
"All I'm saying is—"
He's cut off by the sudden blaring of the station alarm, followed by the dispatcher's voice over the PA system: "Station 42, respond to structure fire, 1823 Maple Street. Residential structure, reports of visible flames and possible entrapment."
We drop our inspection tasks instantly, muscle memory taking over as we rush to our gear. In under a minute, I'm pulling on my boots, turnout pants, suspenders, then thermal hood, coat, helmet, and gloves. Across from me, Lewis, Ollis, and Grant are doing the same, while Chief Brock is already heading for the driver's seat of Engine 42.
The engine's siren wails as we tear out of the station, adrenaline beginning its familiar surge through my system. I run through mental preparations, visualizing search patterns and extraction techniques.
Maple Street means we're heading for the residential area near the elementary school—primarily older single-family homes, many with elderly residents.
"Dispatch update," Brock calls over his shoulder. "Neighbor reports elderly female resident, possible mobility issues. Smoke showing from rear of structure, likely kitchen origin."
I exchange glances with Lewis. Kitchen fires can spread rapidly, especially in older homes with outdated wiring and lots of combustible materials.
As we round the corner onto Maple Street, I can already see the smoke—dark gray billowing from the back of a small blue bungalow. My stomach drops as I recognize the house.
"Chief, that's Mrs. Beaumont's place," I say urgently,
The cottage Jennie was looking at is right behind it.
Brock nods grimly. "Focus on the task, Davidson."
We pull up in front of the house, and the scene comes into clear view. Flames are now visible through the kitchen window, and smoke is pouring from the eaves. A small crowd of neighbors has gathered at a safe distance, and one elderly man is gesturing frantically as Brock approaches.
"My wife called it in," he's saying. "Ethel was baking something—she does that when she's showing properties. The rental cottage is out back, and she was expecting someone to look at it today."
My blood runs cold.
"Chief," I call, already pulling on my SCBA mask. "What if that person is here now?!"
Brock's expression hardens. "Lewis, you and Davidson take the main house, primary search for Mrs. Beaumont. Grant, circle around to check the cottage. Ollis, get water on that kitchen fire now. Move!"
I check my mask seal, switch on my air, and nod to Lewis. We approach the front door together, assessing conditions. Smoke is thick, but visibility still exists near the floor. Heat levels are concerning but not immediately life-threatening.
Lewis tries the door—locked. Without hesitation, I swing my Halligan tool, forcing our entry. We drop low, crawling into the smoke-filled living room.
"Fire department! Call out!" Lewis shouts, his voice muffled by his mask.
No response. We move quickly but methodically, Lewis taking the right side of the room while I go left. The heat intensifies as we approach the hallway leading to the kitchen, flames now visible licking across the ceiling.
"Mrs. Beaumont! Fire department!" I call, scanning for victims as we progress.
A faint sound from the back bedroom draws my attention. I tap Lewis's shoulder and point. He nods, and we move toward the sound, staying below the worst of the smoke.
The bedroom door is closed—a good sign that might have kept the smoke at bay longer. I check the door with the back of my gloved hand—not hot. Carefully, I open it, revealing a haze of smoke but better visibility than the rest of the house.
There, on the floor by the bed, is Mrs. Beaumont, conscious but clearly struggling to breathe.
"I've got her," I radio to command. "Bedroom, east side, conscious victim."
Lewis and I move quickly to her side. "Mrs. Beaumont, we're going to get you out," I assure her, doing a rapid assessment. No obvious injuries, but she's suffering from smoke inhalation.
"The girl," she gasps, clutching my arm. "The cottage—showing the cottage—"
My heart rate spikes. "Was someone in the cottage?" I ask urgently.
She nods weakly. "Young woman—baby—"
"Command from Davidson," I radio immediately. "Confirm possible victims in rear cottage. Repeat, mother and infant possibly in rear cottage."
"Copy that," Brock's voice crackles back. "Grant is approaching cottage now. Focus on your victim, Davidson."
I hear the order. I understand the order. But something primal overrides my training, my discipline, everything that makes me a good firefighter.
"Lewis," I say, my voice tight. "Can you handle Mrs. Beaumont?"
Lewis stares at me through his mask, eyes widening in understanding. "Davidson, don't—"
But I'm already moving, transferring Mrs. Beaumont's weight fully to him. "Get her out. I have to check the cottage."
"Max!" Lewis hisses. "Brock ordered Grant—"
"Grant doesn't know who he's looking for," I say, already turning toward the hallway that leads to the back of the house. "I'll radio if I need backup."
I don't wait for Lewis's response, pushing through the thickening smoke toward the rear door I know connects to the backyard. The rational part of my brain is screaming at me—I'm breaking protocol, endangering the team's coordination, potentially putting myself at risk. But all I can think about is Jennie and Amelia possibly trapped, not knowing the layout, not having the training to navigate a structure fire.
The kitchen is fully involved now, flames crawling across the ceiling and licking down the walls. I stay low, using my forearm to shield my mask as I navigate around burning debris. The rear door is just visible through the smoke—ten feet away, then five.
I reach it, check the handle for heat with the back of my glove, then push it open, gratefully gulping cooler air through my mask as I step into the backyard. From here, I can see the cottage—a small one-story structure about thirty yards from the main house. Smoke is beginning to envelop it as the wind carries the plume in that direction, but no visible flames yet.
"Grant, report position," I radio, scanning for my colleague.
"West side of cottage, preparing to make entry," comes the reply.
"I'm approaching from the main house," I inform him, already jogging across the yard. "Possible mother and infant inside."
I reach the cottage's small porch just as Grant rounds the corner. "Davidson? I thought you were with the primary victim."
"Lewis has her," I say shortly. "Let's clear this structure."
He nods, no further questions. Good man. We approach the front door together, and I try the handle—unlocked. I push it open, and we're immediately hit with a wave of smoke that's seeped in from outside.
"Fire department!" I call. "Anyone inside?"
For a moment, there's no answer, and relief begins to wash over me. Maybe Jennie and Amelia aren't here after all.
Then I hear it—a faint cough from somewhere inside.
"Jennie!" I shout, pushing forward. "Jennie, where are you?"
Another cough, followed by a weak voice. "Here—kitchen—"
Grant and I move quickly through the small living area toward the sound. The cottage's layout is simple—living room, kitchen, bedroom, and bath. The smoke isn't as thick as in the main house, but it's disorienting enough for someone without equipment.
We find her in the kitchen, on the floor near an open window she's clearly been trying to climb out of. She's conscious but struggling, her face streaked with soot, eyes red and watering.
"Jennie," I say, kneeling beside her. "It's Max. We're going to get you out."
Recognition flashes in her eyes. "Max," she gasps. "Amelia—"
"Where is she?" I ask urgently, scanning the room.
"Not—here," Jennie manages between coughs. "Mrs.—Gunderson—"
Relief floods through me so powerfully I almost sway. "She's with Mrs. G? She's safe?"
Jennie nods weakly.
"Victim located, conscious, no infant present," Grant radios to command. "Preparing for evacuation."
"Copy that," Brock replies, tension evident in his voice. "Get out of there now. Fire's extending toward the cottage roof."
I don't need the warning. I can hear the crackling of flames growing louder from the direction of the main house. The cottage won't stay safe for long.
"Can you walk?" I ask Jennie, already positioning myself to carry her if necessary.
She tries to stand but stumbles, light-headed from smoke inhalation. Without hesitation, I scoop her up in my arms, cradling her against my chest. She's lighter than I expected, barely a weight against my turnout gear.
"I've got her," I tell Grant. "Clear us a path."
He leads the way back through the living room to the front door. Outside, the situation has deteriorated—flames are now visible on the main house's roof, and embers are flying toward the cottage. Ollis has repositioned to protect the exposure, directing a hose stream between the structures.
I carry Jennie well clear of both buildings, heading straight for the paramedics stationed at the perimeter. Her arms are wrapped around my neck, her face pressed against my coat, and I can feel her breathing—too fast, too shallow.
"I need oxygen here!" I call as we approach the ambulance. The paramedics rush forward with a stretcher, and I gently lay Jennie down, reluctant to let her go.
"Smoke inhalation, possible five to ten minute exposure," I report as they place an oxygen mask over her face. "No visible burns, but she was getting disoriented."
One of the paramedics—Sarah, who I've worked with dozens of times—nods sharply. "We've got her, Max."
I step back, suddenly aware that I've gone completely off-protocol. Brock is striding toward me, his expression thunderous beneath his helmet.
"Davidson! What the hell was that?" he demands. "I ordered you to focus on your primary victim!"
"Sir, I—"
"You turned over your victim to Lewis without authorization and compromised our operational integrity," he continues, voice low but intense. "We'll discuss this later. For now, get back to your assignment."
"Yes, sir," I reply, properly chastened but not regretting my actions for a second. I steal one more glance at Jennie, who's looking back at me from beneath the oxygen mask, her eyes wide and questioning.
"She'll be okay," Sarah assures me, seeing my concern. "Oxygen's already helping. Go do your job, Max."
I rejoin Lewis, who gives me a look that's equal parts relief and exasperation.
"She okay?" he asks as we advance a hose line toward the main structure.
"Yeah," I reply. "Baby wasn't with her. She's getting oxygen now."
"Good," Lewis says. "Now can you focus on not getting us killed?"
I nod, forcing myself to compartmentalize. The fire still needs to be fought. The incident commander's orders still need to be followed. Even if all I want to do is go back and make sure Jennie is truly okay.
Together, Lewis and I work our way into position to attack the main body of fire, now concentrated in the attic space of Mrs. Beaumont's house. The interior attack is challenging but straightforward—the fire has consumed most of the kitchen and is racing along ceiling joists.
Time compresses in that familiar way during a working fire. Minutes blend together in a focused state of hyperawareness—monitoring conditions, watching for structural changes, maintaining situational awareness while executing the attack.
We're making progress, knocking down the main body of fire, when I hear Brock's voice over the radio: "All personnel, be advised of partial roof collapse possible. Lewis, Davidson, report conditions."
Lewis keys his radio. "Fire darkening down in kitchen. Heavy involvement in attic space. Ceiling beginning to sag."
"Two more minutes, then withdraw for exterior attack," Brock orders.
We press forward, directing our stream upward where flames are still visible through what's left of the kitchen ceiling. The water turns to steam as it hits the superheated surfaces, temporarily worsening visibility but effectively cooling the fire.
A sudden cracking sound above us triggers our training.
"Move!" Lewis shouts, and we both lunge backward as a section of ceiling gives way, burning debris crashing into the floor where we'd been standing seconds before.
"Interior team, evacuate now," Brock commands through the radio. "Repeat, evacuate now."
We don't need to be told twice. Backing out the way we came, we maintain our hose line until we reach the front door, then emerge into daylight again, breathing hard through our masks.
Outside, the scene has evolved. A second engine from the neighboring town has arrived to assist, and Ollis is directing their crew to set up a defensive position to protect the cottage and adjacent properties. Grant is operating the deck gun from our engine, sending a powerful stream of water through what's left of the kitchen window.
As Lewis and I clear the structure, Brock approaches. "Good work. Fire's still active in the attic, but we'll knock it down from outside. Get fresh air bottles and stand by."
I remove my mask, wiping sweat from my face, then immediately look toward the ambulance where I left Jennie. She's sitting up now, oxygen mask still in place, but her color looks better.
"Go," Brock says, surprising me. "Two minutes. Then I need you back here for overhaul."
"Sir?"
"Go check on her," he clarifies, his tone gruff but not unkind. "Two minutes, Davidson."
"Thank you, sir."
I jog over to the ambulance, conscious of my sooty gear and the smell of smoke that clings to me. Jennie's eyes widen as I approach, and she tries to remove the oxygen mask.
"No, keep that on," I say quickly, reaching the side of the gurney. "Don't try to talk. Just focus on breathing."
She ignores me, pulling the mask down slightly.
"You came for me," she says, her voice raspy from the smoke.
"It's my job," I reply automatically, though we both know that's not the full truth.
"Amelia—" she starts, concern flooding her face.
"Is safe with Mrs. Gunderson," I assure her, gently replacing the oxygen mask. "You told me that, remember? She wasn't with you at the cottage."
Relief washes over her features, and she nods, eyes closing briefly.
"Why were you there alone?" I ask, unable to help myself.
She pulls the mask down again. "Mrs. G was only going to bring her over after my tour." Her voice breaks slightly. "If she'd been with me..."
"But she wasn't," I say firmly. "She's safe. You're going to be okay."
Sarah returns with a clipboard. "We need to transport her for further evaluation," she tells me. "Protocol for smoke inhalation."
I nod, knowing she's right. "Mrs. Gunderson should be notified," I tell Jennie. "So she doesn't bring Amelia here and get scared."
Jennie fumbles for her phone, but her hands are shaking too much to operate it.
"I'll take care of it," I promise. "Just focus on recovering, okay? Everything else can wait."
She looks at me with an intensity that makes my chest tighten, then slowly nods and allows Sarah to replace the oxygen mask.
"Davidson!" Brock calls from across the scene. "Time's up!"
"I have to go," I tell her reluctantly. "But I'll check on you later, make sure you are okay."
She nods again, her eyes communicating what she can't say aloud.
As I jog back to the fire scene, I'm aware of a sharp pain in my shoulder that I hadn't noticed before—probably from carrying Jennie out of the cottage or from dodging the falling ceiling debris. It doesn't matter. What matters is that she's safe, Amelia's safe, and once we get this fire fully extinguished, I can make sure they stay that way.
I rejoin Lewis for overhaul duties, working through the process of checking for hidden fire, ensuring complete extinguishment. As we work, I keep finding my gaze drawn to the ambulance where paramedics are preparing to transport Jennie.
"She must be something special," Lewis comments quietly as we pull down a section of damaged ceiling. "I've never seen you break protocol before."
I don't have an answer for him. I'm not sure I have an answer for myself. All I know is that when I heard Jennie might be in that cottage, nothing else mattered—not protocol, not chain of command, not even my own safety.
And that terrifies me almost as much as it intrigues me.
By the time we declare the fire officially out, nearly two hours have passed. The house has suffered significant damage, but the cottage behind it has escaped with only minor smoke damage to its exterior. As we begin packing up our equipment, I pull out my phone and find Mrs. Gunderson's number.
"Max?" she answers on the second ring. "Is everything alright? I've been seeing the fire trucks from my window."
"Mrs. Beaumont's house caught fire," I explain. "Jennie was looking at the cottage when it happened. She's okay, but they're taking her to the hospital for observation. Smoke inhalation."
"Oh my goodness!" Mrs. Gunderson exclaims. "Poor Ethel! And poor Jennie! Don't worry about Amelia. We're making cookies and reading stories, and then we’ll go to the hospital."
"Good," I say, relief washing through me again. "I’m sure Jennie will love waking up with Amelia next to her."
"Of course, dear," Mrs. Gunderson assures me.
"Thank you, Mrs. G."
As I end the call, Brock approaches, his expression stern. "My office, tomorrow, 0800," he says without preamble. "We need to discuss your actions today."
"Yes, sir," I acknowledge. "I understand."
"You're injured," he observes, nodding toward my shoulder where I've been unconsciously rubbing at the pain.
"It's nothing," I dismiss. "Probably just strained something."
"Get it checked," he orders. "Workers' comp paperwork's in my office."
"I'm fine, Chief."
"That wasn't a suggestion, Davidson." His tone softens slightly. "You did good work today, despite the insubordination. The victim you extracted—"
"Jennie," I supply.
"Jennie," he concedes. "She'll be okay because of your quick action. But next time, follow the damn chain of command. That's how we all stay safe."
"Understood, sir."
Brock nods once, then moves away to coordinate with the second engine company. Lewis approaches, clapping me on my good shoulder.
"You heading to the hospital after this?" he asks knowingly.
I hesitate, then nod. "Just to check on her. Make sure she's okay."
"Uh-huh," Lewis says, his tone skeptical. "Just doing your duty as a public servant."
"Exactly," I reply, refusing to rise to the bait.
"Tell you what," Lewis offers. "I'll finish the equipment check-in. You go get that shoulder looked at and, you know, check on the smoke inhalation victim who has you breaking every rule in the book."
I start to protest, then stop myself. "Thanks, Lewis."
"Don't mention it," he says, then adds, "Seriously, don't. I don't want to get dragged into whatever Brock has planned for you tomorrow."
I manage a tired laugh. "Fair enough."
As I shed my turnout gear and store it properly in the truck, I find myself replaying the moment I found Jennie in the cottage kitchen—the fear in her eyes changing to recognition, the way she whispered my name, the trust with which she let me carry her to safety.
"Davidson," Ollis calls, interrupting my thoughts. "You coming back to the station?"
"No," I reply. "Gotta get my shoulder checked out. And..." I trail off.
Ollis nods, understanding. "The woman from the cottage."
"Yeah," I admit.
Something passes across Ollis's face—a shadow of the pain he still carries from that apartment fire last year, the one where he couldn't save someone.
"Good thing the baby wasn't with her," he says quietly.
"Yeah," I agree. "Really good thing."
We stand in silence for a moment, both aware of how differently this day could have ended.
"Tell her—" Ollis starts, then stops himself. "Never mind. Just... good job today, Max."
Coming from Ollis, who rarely offers praise these days, it means something. I nod my thanks, then head for my truck, already planning my route to Cedar Falls Medical Center.
And trying very hard not to think about what it means that I broke every rule in the book for a woman I barely know.