Chapter 5 – Ollis
"Crawford, you going to tell us what that was about, or do we have to guess?" Lewis asks as we climb back into the truck, his grin suggesting he's already formed theories.
"Just someone I know," I reply, keeping my tone casual while securing my seat belt.
The truck's cab smells of smoke and sweat after our morning calls—familiar, grounding scents that usually help me stay focused. Today, they're competing with the lingering memory of Everly's subtle perfume across that diner booth.
Grant snorts from the driver's seat. "Someone you know who happens to be gorgeous and had you sprinting across Lou's like the place was on fire."
"I wasn't sprinting," I mutter, though I can't exactly deny the rest.
Everly Morgan is beautiful—something I've been aware of since our first session, but tried to file away as irrelevant. Seeing her outside the controlled environment of her office, dressed in casual clothes with her hair loose around her shoulders, only confirmed what I already knew.
"Wait," Lewis says suddenly, narrowing his eyes at me. "Is she the therapist Brock's making you see?"
I shoot him an irritated look as Grant pulls away from the curb. "Patient confidentiality, remember? Goes both ways."
Lewis raises his hands in mock surrender. "Just connecting dots, bro. You start therapy, suddenly you're paying for some woman's breakfast at Lou's..."
"It was professional courtesy," I insist. "And I pay for people's meals all the time."
"Sure," Grant chimes in, taking the turn toward the station. "But you don't usually stare at them from across the diner first."
"Was I that obvious?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Lewis and Grant exchange amused glances. "Like a teenage boy at prom," Lewis confirms.
I groan, leaning my head back against the seat. "Perfect."
"Relax," Grant says. "Not like there's a rule against finding your therapist attractive. Acting on it would be another story, but looking? That's just human biology."
"Can we drop it?" I request, though I know it's futile. Firehouse culture thrives on exactly this kind of good-natured harassment.
"For now," Lewis concedes as we pull into the station. "But only because I want a shower before the briefing."
Back at the station, I head straight for the showers, eager to wash away the morning's smoke and soot—and maybe clear my head in the process. The hot water beats against my shoulders, releasing tension I didn't realize I was carrying.
Seeing Everly at Lou's threw me off balance. In her office, our roles are clearly defined: she's the professional helping me work through my issues, and I'm the patient following her guidance. But across that diner booth, those roles blurred. She was just a woman having breakfast. I was just a guy stopping by her table.
Except we're not just anything to each other, and pretending otherwise is a complication neither of us needs.
I shut off the water and grab a towel, drying off quickly. As I dress in my station uniform, I try to focus on the day ahead—the equipment checks, the training session on the new breathing apparatus, the paperwork from this morning's calls. Usual, everyday firefighter stuff that has nothing to do with trauma therapy or attractive psychologists.
But my mind keeps circling back to the moment she looked up and saw me entering Lou's. I'm not imagining the flash of something beyond professional recognition in her eyes. Surprise, yes, but also something warmer that made my bulge throb.
"Get it together, Crawford," I mutter to myself, slamming my locker shut with more force than necessary.
In the briefing room, Chief Brock is already setting up, with most of the shift crew assembled. Max is smiling at something on his phone, probably pictures of Jennie's kid. Lewis is still fixing his hair—my brother's vanity is legendary around the station. Grant sits ramrod straight, military habits die hard.
I take my usual seat toward the back, nodding to Brock as I settle in.
"Crawford," he acknowledges. "Good work on Route 16 this morning."
"Thanks, Chief," I reply. "Engine fire was pretty straightforward."
"And before that, the extraction on the highway," he continues. "Lewis says you were first to reach the driver."
I shrug, uncomfortable with the praise when I'm still restricted from entering burning structures. "Just doing the job."
"How are the sessions with Dr. Morgan going?"
The question catches me off guard, especially with the other guys in earshot. "Fine," I say shortly. "Making progress."
He seems to sense my reluctance to discuss it further and thankfully moves on, beginning the briefing with updates on department policies and upcoming training requirements.
I try to focus, but my mind wanders. The physical techniques Everly taught me have been surprisingly effective. Twice since our last session, I've caught myself sliding into that cold, paralyzing feeling—once when thinking about Henderson, and once when the tones dropped for a structure fire that turned out to be a false alarm.
Both times, I was able to ground myself using her methods: focusing on physical sensations, controlling my breathing, distinguishing between memory and present reality.
It's not a cure. I still don't know if I'll be able to enter a burning building without freezing when the moment actually comes. But it's something—a tool I didn't have before meeting her.
After the briefing, I head to the equipment bay for my assigned checks. The routine is soothing—inspecting air tanks, testing pressure gauges, confirming that each piece of life-saving equipment is in perfect working order. This, at least, is straightforward.
"You okay?" Lewis asks, appearing beside me as I check off items on the inventory list. "You seemed distracted in there."
"I'm fine," I reply.
He raises an eyebrow, the expression so similar to our mother's it's almost eerie. "That's what you always say."
I sigh, setting down my clipboard. "What do you want me to say, Lewis? That I'm embarrassed about running into my therapist at Lou's? That I'm frustrated I'm still not cleared for full duty? That I'm tired of everyone walking on eggshells around me?"
"Yes," he says simply. "Any of that would be more honest than 'I'm fine.'"
He has a point, annoyingly enough. "Okay, yes to all of the above. And add confused to the list."
"About what?"
I hesitate, unsure how much to share even with my brother. "About whether the therapy is actually working or if I'm just getting better at pretending I'm okay."
Lewis considers this. "Well, from where I'm standing, there's improvement. A month ago, you wouldn't have gone to the highway extraction at all. Today, you were first to the vehicle."
"That's different," I protest. "There wasn't any fire."
"Risk is risk," he counters. "Point is, you're engaging instead of avoiding. That counts for something."
Before I can respond, the station alarm blares, followed by the automated dispatch voice: "Attention Station 3. Structure fire reported at 1427 Maple Street. Residential dwelling. Possible entrapment."
My heart rate spikes immediately, but I move toward the gear wall with everyone else, muscle memory taking over. As we suit up, Brock catches my eye across the bay.
"Crawford," he calls out. "You're on perimeter and support. Lewis and Grant will make entry if needed."
I nod, swallowing the protest that rises in my throat. It's the right call. I'm not cleared for interior operations, and a possible entrapment is no place to test whether my therapy is working.
The ride to the scene is tense, each of us mentally preparing for what's ahead. I focus on my breathing the way Everly taught me, grounding myself in the physical sensations of the moment—the vibration of the truck, the weight of my gear, the pressure of the seat beneath me.
When we arrive, smoke is already billowing from the second floor of a modest two-story home. A frantic woman in her sixties is being held back by a neighbor as she screams toward the house.
"My husband! He's still inside! Upstairs bathroom!"
I jump from the truck, joining Brock as he approaches the woman.
"Ma'am, I'm Chief Brock. Can you tell us exactly where your husband is and if anyone else is in the building?"
"Just Frank," she sobs. "He was in the shower when the smoke alarms went off. I was getting home from the market and tried to climb the stairs, but the smoke was too thick."
Brock turns to the team. "Lewis, primary search upstairs, focusing on the bathroom. Grant, get a line in through the front door. Max, ventilation. Ollis, establish water supply and assist Grant with the hose."
Everyone moves to their assignments. I connect the supply line to the nearest hydrant, then join Grant at the front of the house. The smoke is thicker now, rolling out the open front door in ominous black waves.
"Ready?" Grant asks, hefting the hose.
I nod, taking position behind him to support the line's weight as we approach the entrance. Heat radiates from the doorway, intensifying as we cross the threshold. Inside, visibility is poor, maybe three feet at best. The fire seems concentrated upstairs, but flames are starting to lick down the stairwell.
Grant advances the hose toward the stairs, and I follow, maintaining the line's integrity. Through our radios, I hear Lewis reporting he’s reached the second floor and is searching for the bathroom.
We're about ten feet into the house when it happens. A ceiling beam near the stairs gives way with a sickening crack, crashing down in a shower of sparks and debris. The sound—so similar to the Henderson collapse—triggers an immediate physical response.
Cold spreads through my chest. My breathing constricts. The world slows down, underwater-like, just as it did at Henderson's house. Just as it did at Pineridge.
But this time, I'm prepared. In the space between the beam's fall and my next heartbeat, I remember Everly's techniques. I focus on the physical sensation of the hose in my gloved hands, the weight of my breathing apparatus, the solid floor beneath my boots.
*This isn't Henderson's house,* I tell myself firmly. *This is 1427 Maple. The collapse was a beam, not the ceiling. Grant is right in front of you. You are present. You are needed.*
The cold recedes slightly. My breathing regulates. Time returns to normal speed.
"Crawford!" Grant's voice cuts through my awareness. "You good?"
"Yeah," I manage, surprised to find it's not a lie. "I'm good. Let's move."
We advance further, spraying water up the stairwell to control the flames. Above us, I hear Lewis's voice over the radio: "Chief, I've located the victim. Elderly male, unconscious but breathing. I’m bringing him out now."
Relief floods through me. He's alive.
"South exit compromised," Lewis continues. "Moving to the east window. I'll need ladder assistance."
"Copy that," Brock responds. "Max, reposition the ladder to the east side, second floor."
Grant and I maintain our position, keeping the stairwell clear as Lewis navigates toward the window with their victim. The fire is responding to our suppression efforts, but the structure's integrity is increasingly compromised.
"Ollis," Brock's voice comes through my radio. "Need your assist with the victim extraction. Grant, fall back once they've got him out the window."
"Copy," I respond, backing carefully toward the door, maintaining the hose line until I'm clear of the structure.
Outside, I sprint to the east side of the house where Max has positioned the ladder. Above, I can see Lewis appearing at the window, the unconscious form of Frank cradled in his arms.
"Ready for transfer," Lewis calls down.
I position myself at the base of the ladder as Max climbs up to help. Together, they secure the victim to a rescue harness, then begin the careful descent. I stand ready, heart pounding not with fear but with focused purpose.
When they reach the bottom, I help lower Frank onto the waiting gurney. His face is soot-streaked but he's breathing, an oxygen mask already being placed over his nose and mouth by the paramedics who arrived while we were inside.
"Good work," Brock says, appearing at my side as we watch the paramedics load Frank into the ambulance. His wife climbs in beside him, her earlier panic replaced by tearful gratitude.
"I just assisted," I say. "Lewis made the save."
"You did your job," Brock counters. "And from what I saw, you handled that beam collapse without hesitation."
I look at him sharply. "You saw that?"
He nods. "I see everything on my fireground, Crawford. Including when one of my best firefighters faces down a trigger and keeps functioning."
His words sink in slowly. I had been so focused on managing my response that I hadn't fully registered what it meant: I didn't freeze. When confronted with a scenario eerily similar to Henderson's, I stayed present. I kept moving.
"It's working," I say quietly, more to myself than to Brock.
"The therapy?" he asks.
I nod. "The techniques she taught me. They actually helped."
Brock claps me on the shoulder. "Good. Keep at it."
The rest of the call is straightforward—extinguishing remaining hotspots, securing the scene, documenting the response. Throughout it all, I feel a cautious optimism growing. Today wasn't a full test—I still didn't enter a fully involved structure fire—but it was progress. Definitive progress.
Back at the station, the post-call routine helps ground me further. Cleaning equipment, restocking the truck, filing preliminary reports. Lewis finds me in the equipment bay, hanging my turnout gear to dry.
"Heard you had a moment in there," he says without preamble. "And that you pushed through it."
I continue arranging my gear, not meeting his eyes. "News travels fast."
"It's a firehouse," he shrugs. "So, the therapy's helping then?"
"Seems like it." I finally look at him. "But one partial success doesn't mean I'm cured."
"Obviously," he agrees. "But it's something to build on."
I nod, allowing myself to acknowledge the victory, small as it is. "Yeah. It is."
Later, alone in the station's quiet room—a small space set aside for meditation or private calls—I pull out my phone and stare at the contact information Everly gave me for emergencies. This isn't an emergency, but I feel an urgent need to tell her what happened today.