Chapter 3 - Ollis
I sit in my truck for a good ten minutes after leaving Dr. Morgan's—Everly's—office. The engine idles as I stare at nothing in particular, hands gripping the steering wheel too tight. The session replays in my head like a movie I couldn't pause.
I told her about Henderson.
I hadn't planned to say a word about that night, yet somehow she'd gotten me talking. That's probably what they teach in shrink school—how to make people spill their guts without realizing they're doing it.
But it wasn't manipulation that got me talking. It was something in those perceptive eyes behind those glasses, something that made me want to explain myself. To make her understand that I'm not usually the guy who freezes when people need him.
"Dammit," I mutter, finally putting the truck in gear and pulling away from the curb.
The drive home is a blur. I find myself at the grocery store instead, wandering aisles without any real purpose. My kitchen has been running on empty for days—takeout containers and beer the only constants. Maybe acting like a functional adult will make me feel like one.
I'm comparing two different brands of coffee when my phone buzzes. Lewis.
*Poker night at Grant's. You in?*
I stare at the screen. Poker night used to be a given. The guys, beer, terrible snacks, and hours of trash talk—it was our ritual between shifts. I've begged off the last three.
*Sure*, I type back before I can overthink it. Maybe normal routines are what I need right now.
I finish shopping and head home. There's still time before I need to leave for Grant's, so I start the assignment Everly gave me—noticing physical responses when memories surface. It feels ridiculous, like some new age meditation crap, but I promised her. Sort of.
I close my eyes, letting my mind drift back to the Henderson fire. Immediately, my chest tightens. My breathing shallows. There's a cold sensation spreading from my core outward, even as sweat beads on my forehead. My fingers tingle like they've fallen asleep.
I open my eyes, breathing hard. Great. So now I know my body goes haywire thinking about the fire. How exactly is this helpful?
I shake it off and get ready for poker night, grabbing a six-pack from the fridge as my contribution. Grant lives in a tidy townhouse across town—"military corners in every room," as Max likes to joke.
When I arrive, the usual suspects are already there. Lewis gives me a surprised smile when I walk in, like he half-expected me to bail at the last minute.
"Look what the cat dragged in," Grant calls out, dealing cards at the table. "Wasn't sure you remembered where I lived."
"Memory's fine," I reply, setting down the beer. "Just been busy."
It's a weak excuse, but no one challenges it. That's the thing about the brotherhood—they push when it matters and back off when they sense boundaries.
I take the empty seat between Lewis and Max, feeling oddly out of place in this familiar setting. The rhythm of the game used to be as natural as breathing. Now it feels like I'm trying to remember the steps to a dance I used to know by heart.
"So," Lewis says casually as Grant deals the first hand, "how'd it go today?"
I freeze for a split second before realizing he's asking about the therapy session. Of course he knows—nothing stays secret in a firehouse.
"Fine," I say, arranging my cards without really seeing them. "She's...not what I expected."
"Hot?" Lewis asks immediately, earning him a sharp look from Chief.
"Unprofessional," Brock warns, though there's no real heat behind it.
"Just asking what we're all thinking," he defends himself, tossing chips into the center. "Raise twenty."
"She's professional," I say firmly, matching the bet. "And actually seems to know what she's talking about."
"High praise from the therapy skeptic," Max remarks, looking at his cards.
The conversation mercifully shifts to safer topics—the upcoming department inspection and Max and Jennie’s plans to go on vacation. I let the familiar banter wash over me, contributing enough to avoid concern but not enough to invite deeper conversation.
Three hands in, I realize I'm actually enjoying myself. The knot that's lived in my chest for weeks has loosened slightly. I even laugh genuinely when Lewis reveals his bluff on a garbage hand, taking a sizeable pot from Grant who curses colorfully.
"That's the Ollis laugh," Max says, pointing at me with his beer bottle. "Haven't heard that in a while."
I shrug, uncomfortable with the attention. "Been a while since Lewis pulled his head out of his ass long enough to be funny."
My brother grins, relieved to have me firing back. "Bite me, old man."
We're four rounds deep when the conversation circles back to work.
"Warehouse assessment came back," Brock mentions, reshuffling the deck. "Insurance company's ruling it electrical, not arson."
"Called it," Grant says. "Wiring in that place was ancient."
"Could have been worse," Max adds. "The back storage area had some nasty chemicals. If the fire had reached those..."
"But it didn't," Lewis interrupts, shooting a quick glance my way. "Because we handled it."
*We* handled it, while I stayed outside. I feel my jaw clench, that familiar tightness returning to my chest. I look down at my hands, noticing they've curled into fists. Awareness. That's what Everly said to notice.
"Fold," I say, tossing my cards down and standing. "Need some air."
Grant's back deck is small but private, overlooking a narrow strip of woods separating the townhouse complex from the next development. The night air is cool, carrying the scent of pine and someone's firepit burning nearby. I grip the railing, forcing deep breaths the way they taught us in academy training for smoke inhalation prevention.
The sliding door opens behind me. I don't turn, already knowing from the heavy footsteps that it's Brock.
"Wasn't trying to run you off," he says, coming to stand beside me.
"You didn't," I reply. "Just needed space."
He nods, both of us staring out at the darkness. Chief Brock isn't one for unnecessary words, something I've always appreciated about him.
"How'd it really go with Dr. Morgan?" he finally asks.
I consider deflecting, giving him the same "fine" I gave the others. But this is the man who holds my career in his hands. The man who's stood beside me at more fires than I can count.
"Better than I thought," I admit. "Worse than I hoped."
He raises an eyebrow. "Meaning?"
"Meaning she got me talking about Henderson." I run a hand through my hair. "Didn't plan to, but it happened."
"That's good, right? Talking about it?"
I shrug. "Maybe. She says the freezing up is some kind of biological response. Not a choice."
"Makes sense," Brock says. "I've seen it happen in combat. Guys with all the training in the world just locking up when bullets start flying."
"What happened to them?" I ask, already suspecting the answer.
"Some worked through it. Some didn't." His honesty is brutally refreshing. "Difference was usually whether they faced it or ran from it."
I nod, letting that sink in. "She wants me to notice how my body reacts when I think about it. Says awareness is the first step."
"Smart woman." Brock takes a swig of his beer. "You're letting her help, then?"
"I'm showing up," I clarify. "Beyond that, we'll see."
He claps me on the shoulder, a rare gesture of physical support from our stoic chief. "That's all I'm asking for now, Ollis. One step at a time."
We stand in silence for another minute before he turns to go back inside. At the door, he pauses.
"We miss you out there," he says simply. "Team's not the same without you in the thick of it."
After he's gone, I stay outside a while longer, processing. The night sounds—crickets and the wind in the trees—fill the space where my thoughts tangle. I close my eyes, trying Everly's exercise again.
This time, I push past the initial reaction—the tightness, the cold, the shortness of breath—and try to follow it deeper. Where is this coming from? What am I really feeling beneath the physical symptoms?
The answer bubbles up unexpectedly: shame. Not just guilt over Henderson, but shame at being seen as weak. At letting down my team. At not living up to the identity I've built over fifteen years.
My eyes snap open. Is that what Everly meant by awareness? This uncomfortable recognition of emotions I've been burying beneath anger and avoidance?
I rejoin the poker game with a clearer head, lasting another hour before calling it a night. Lewis walks me to my truck, lingering as I unlock the door.
"It's good to see you out," he says. "Was starting to think you'd become a hermit."
"Just needed time," I reply, though we both know it's been more than that.
"You going back? To Dr. Morgan?"
I pause, hand on the door handle. "Yeah. In two days."
Lewis nods, satisfied. "Good. She must be something special to get you to willingly see a therapist."
"She's doing her job," I say, more defensively than intended.
My brother raises his hands in mock surrender, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Whatever you say. Just glad it's working."
I drive home with the windows down, letting the cold air clear my head. Lewis's insinuation nags at me—the idea that my willingness to return has anything to do with Everly herself rather than my determination to get back to full duty.
Sure, she wasn't what I expected. She doesn't fit the mental image I had of a stern, clinical psychologist with clipboard and condescending tone. Instead, she's warm and direct, with curves that her professional attire doesn't quite conceal and eyes that see more than I'm comfortable revealing.
But that's not why I'm going back. I'm going back because I need my job back. My life back. The person I was before Henderson.
Two Days Later
I find myself back in front of the brick building that houses Dr. Morgan's practice. I'm ten minutes early this time—no circling the block, no sitting in the truck debating whether to go in. Progress, I suppose.
The same receptionist greets me with a smile of recognition. "Dr. Morgan will be ready for you shortly. Would you like water or tea today?"
"Water's fine," I answer, surprising both of us with the acceptance.
I take the same chair as last time, sipping from the paper cup and watching the clock tick toward our appointment time. The waiting room is empty except for me. I wonder vaguely about Everly's other patients—do they all come carrying the weight of people they couldn't save, or do some have more ordinary problems?
At precisely 2:00, her door opens.
"Ollis," she says, my name sounding softer in her voice than I'm used to hearing it. "Come in."
She's wearing a deep blue wrap dress today, her dark hair loose around her shoulders instead of pulled back like last time. The glasses are the same, as is the attentive expression behind them. I follow her into the office, taking my seat from before.
"How have you been since our last session?" she asks, settling across from me.
"Fine," I reply right away, then catch myself. "Actually, that's not entirely true. I've been...noticing things. Like you suggested."
Something that might be approval flickers in her eyes. "Tell me about that."
I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with how eager I suddenly am to share these observations with her. "It's the physical reactions, like you said. Chest gets tight. Breathing changes. Cold feeling in my gut."
She nods encouragingly. "And when do these sensations occur?"
"When I think about the fires. When someone mentions Henderson. When we get too close to talking about why I can't go back in." I pause, then add, "And when I feel like I'm letting the team down."
Everly leans forward slightly. "That last part—the feeling of letting people down—did that come up recently?"
I think about poker night, about the careful way Lewis changed the subject when the warehouse fire came up. "Yeah. I went to a thing with the guys from the firehouse. They're...walking on eggshells around me."
"That must be difficult," she says, and it doesn't sound like empty sympathy. "To go from being in the center of the action to feeling sidelined."
"It's worse than difficult," I admit. "It's like I don't know who I am anymore. Firefighting isn't just what I do. It's who I am. Who I've been for fifteen years."
"I understand that kind of identity attachment," she says, surprising me. "When what we do becomes who we are, any threat to our ability to perform that role feels like existential danger."
I wonder what she's referring to. Does she have her own version of this struggle?
"But you are still a firefighter," she continues. "Your value to your team, to your department, isn't limited to running into burning buildings."
"That's exactly what it is," I counter. "That's the job. If I can't do that part, I'm useless."
"Is that really true?" She tilts her head, challenging me gently. "From what Chief Brock told me, you're one of the most experienced members of your team. Your knowledge, your instincts, your ability to assess situations—those things don't disappear because you're struggling with one aspect of the job."
I haven't thought about it that way. Even benched, I've still been going on calls, still handling equipment, still contributing to situation assessments. It's not the same as being on the front line, but it's not nothing.
"Maybe," I concede reluctantly. "But it's not enough."
"For whom?" she asks. "For the department, or for you?"
The question hits harder than I expect. "Both. Either. I don't know."
She lets that sit between us for a moment. "Let's go back to the physical responses you've been noticing. Have you found any way to manage them when they start?"
I think about the deck at Grant's house, how focusing on external sensations—the cold air, the pine scent—helped ground me. "Sometimes. If I catch it early enough, focusing on something concrete helps. Breathing. Counting. Physical sensations that aren't related to the memory."
"That's excellent," she says, genuine approval warming her voice. "Those are grounding techniques, and they're very effective for interrupting trauma responses. You discovered them intuitively."
Her praise shouldn't matter to me, but I feel a small glow of satisfaction nonetheless.
"I'd like to try something today, if you're willing," she continues. "A more directed version of what you've been doing on your own."
I hesitate. "What kind of something?"
"A guided exercise to help you process the physical components of the trauma memory," she explains. "It's not hypnosis or anything mystical—just a structured way to separate the memory from the physiological response."
My instinct is to refuse. This sounds dangerously close to the kind of therapy I've always mocked—laying on a couch talking about feelings while someone asks about my childhood.
But then I remember Brock's words on Grant's deck. *The difference was usually whether they faced it or ran from it.*
"Okay," I say finally. "I'll try."
Everly looks pleasantly surprised. "Thank you for trusting the process. We'll take it slowly."
She adjusts her position, angling her chair to face me more directly. "I'd like you to close your eyes and get comfortable."
I comply, though "comfortable" feels like a stretch.
"Focus on your breathing first," she instructs, her voice taking on a measured cadence. "In through the nose for four counts, out through the mouth for six."
I follow her guidance, feeling slightly foolish but committed now that I've agreed.
"Now, bring your awareness to the sensation of your body in the chair. The weight of your feet on the floor. The temperature of the air on your skin."
As I focus on these physical anchors, I'm surprised to find my heartbeat slowing and my shoulders relaxing.
"I'm going to ask you to recall the Henderson fire," she says gently. "But not the whole memory—just fragments. And any time it becomes too intense, we'll return to the present moment. Is that alright?"
I nod, eyes still closed.
"First, just picture arriving at the scene. The truck, the equipment, the exterior of the house. Notice any physical sensations that arise."
The image forms easily in my mind—nighttime, flames already visible through the roof, neighbors in robes and pajamas on the lawn. My chest tightens immediately.
"I feel it," I say. "The tightness."
"Where exactly?" she asks.
"Center of my chest. Like something heavy sitting on it."
"Good. Now, without trying to change that sensation, just observe it. Is it moving or still? Hot or cold? Sharp or dull?"
I focus on the discomfort. "Heavy. Cold. Spreading outward."
"Now, while maintaining awareness of that sensation, shift your attention to your feet on the floor. Feel the solid support beneath you. This is happening now, in this safe space."
The dual awareness is strange—acknowledging the memory response while simultaneously registering my actual, current physical safety.
"Let's continue," she says after I've had a moment with this. "Move forward in the memory, just to entering the house. What physical sensations arise?"
As I picture stepping through the front door, the cold in my chest intensifies. My breathing quickens.
"Cold getting worse," I manage. "Hard to breathe properly."
"Stay with your breath," she guides. "In for four, out for six. The memory can't hurt you here."
We continue like this, moving through fragments of the memory while she keeps me anchored in the present moment through physical awareness. When we reach the critical moment—the ceiling beam, Henderson's face, my paralysis—my body goes into full alarm. Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and my hands curl into fists.
"I can't," I say, eyes still closed but voice tight. "This part—I can't do it."
"That's perfectly fine," Everly says immediately. "Open your eyes and look around the room. Name five things you can see."
I blink, disoriented for a second. "Your desk. The window. That plant in the corner. Your degrees on the wall. Your..." I pause, noticing a photo I hadn't seen before. "Is that you on a mountain?"
She smiles. "Kilimanjaro, two years ago. Good observation. How's your breathing now?"
I realize the worst of the physical reaction has subsided. I'm back in her office, grounded in the present.
"Better," I admit. "That was... intense."
"You did extremely well," she says. "Most people can't tolerate that level of exposure in a second session."
There's that warmth again at her approval. I push it aside.
"What's the point of all that?" I ask, though without the defensiveness that would have colored the question days ago.
"Several things," she explains. "First, you're learning that you can experience these physical reactions without being overwhelmed by them. Second, you're creating a distinction between the memory and your present reality. And third, you're gradually desensitizing your nervous system to the traumatic content."
When she puts it that way, it doesn't sound like mystical therapy nonsense. It sounds like training, like building a skill.
"Will this help me not freeze up next time I'm facing a similar situation?" I ask, the real question finally emerging.
"That's the goal," she confirms. "But it's a process, not an instant fix. Your mind and body learned this response for a reason—they were trying to protect you. We need to teach them there are better ways to keep you safe."
I consider this. "So we keep doing... whatever that was?"
"Exposure work, yes. Gradually and carefully. But I'd also like to understand more about what happened before Henderson. You mentioned that at Pineridge, you saw 'not the actual hallway but the memory of another fire, another victim.' What was that about?"
The question catches me off guard. I'd almost forgotten mentioning that detail in our first session.
"It's complicated," I say, deflecting.
"I imagine it is," she agrees. "Most things worth understanding are."
Her patience is unnerving—the way she waits, neither pushing nor retreating. It makes me want to fill the silence.
"There was another fire," I admit finally. "Eight years ago. Apartment complex downtown. We lost someone. A thirty-year-old woman."
Everly's expression remains compassionate but professional. "Were you directly involved in the attempt to rescue her?"
"Yeah. I was the one who found her." The memory surfaces with surprising clarity. "She was hiding in a closet. By the time I got to her, she wasn't breathing. I carried her out, did CPR, but..." I trail off.
"You couldn't save her," Everly finishes softly.
"Eva," I say, her name still familiar on my tongue after all these years. "She was afraid of the fire, so she hid instead of trying to get out. She'd stuffed towels under the closet door, thinking it would keep the smoke out."
"That must have been devastating," Everly says.
"It was rough, but I dealt with it," I reply. "Or I thought I did. We've lost victims before. It's part of the job. You mourn, you learn what you can from it, you move on."
"But when you were at the Pineridge fire, something connected back to Eva," she prompts.
I frown, trying to articulate the connection I've never fully examined. "The hallway at Pineridge—it was similar. Narrow, smoke-filled. And when I saw it, suddenly I wasn't seeing Pineridge anymore. I was back in that apartment, knowing Eva was somewhere ahead, already running out of air."
"And that's when you froze?"
"Yeah. It was like my body remembered the outcome before my mind could process where I actually was." I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. "Which makes no sense. Eva's death was sad, but I didn't freeze then. I did everything possible to save her."
"Sometimes trauma doesn't fully process when it happens. It gets stored away, especially if we're in high-stress occupations where there's no time to properly integrate difficult experiences. Then something triggers it years later, and suddenly we're responding not just to the current situation but to the accumulated weight of multiple similar experiences."
That makes a disturbing amount of sense. I've never counted how many victims we've lost over my fifteen-year career. Dozens, probably. Each one filed away with professional detachment because there was always another call coming, always another person who needed saving.
"So, what you're saying is, Henderson wasn't the cause—he was the tipping point."
"Exactly," she confirms. "The straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak."
Our time is nearly up, but there's one more thing nagging at me.
"You seem to understand this firsthand," I say. "The way you talked about identity being tied to what we do."
Something flickers across her face—a brief vulnerability quickly masked by professional composure.
"I've had my own experiences with having to redefine my sense of self when circumstances changed," she says "But this session is about you, not me."