Chapter 5
chapter
five
I spent the first few hours in a ritual of decontamination, both physical and mental.
My dirty station uniform went straight into the washing machine on the sanitary cycle, a habit ingrained so deeply it was second nature.
I stood under the spray of a scalding hot shower for a solid twenty minutes, methodically scrubbing away the grime and the lingering smell of smoke that seemed to seep into my pores.
It wasn't just about being clean; it was about washing away the shift, shedding the skin of Lieutenant Delgado to find the woman underneath.
The woman underneath, I reflected as I pulled on a pair of worn-out sweatpants and a threadbare academy t-shirt, was a lot less sure of herself.
At the station, I was in command. My orders were followed without question because my crew trusted my judgment.
My world was a series of problems with tactical solutions: a fire required water, an entrapment required hydraulics, a medical emergency required a clear protocol. I knew the steps. I knew the rules.
Here, in the quiet of my own living room, the problems were messier.
There was the ever-growing stack of paperwork for my Captain's promotion exam, a mountain of policies and procedures I had to memorize.
And, of course, the low-grade hum of anxiety about BC Evans and the political games being played by Lieutenant Santoro.
The car incident still burned, three months later. Not because of what happened (which was objectively hilarious), but because of how Santoro had weaponized it.
I'd dealt with Santoro's brand of bullshit before.
The way he'd talk over me in officer meetings.
The backhanded compliments—"Pretty good stop for a crew your size" or "Impressive you got that line stretched so fast, considering.
" The jokes that weren't quite jokes, delivered with a smile that dared you to take offense. Deniable. Always deniable.
But that had been generic asshole behavior. The ambient misogyny of a guy who resented sharing space with women but knew better than to say it out loud. The car incident had made it personal. Like a bully who'd always been looking for an excuse, and now he had one. Look what you made me do.
It had been a nothing call. Automatic fire alarm at a dentist's office, probably a contractor setting off dust. But when the tones dropped, Santoro's pristine white Dodge Charger was parked directly in front of Engine 18's bay door.
He'd been at Station 2 for some battalion meeting, supposedly "just running in for a minute. "
I'd gone looking for him. Day room, empty. Kitchen, empty. I was checking the back hallway when I heard the diesel engine fire up behind me.
By the time I got back to the apparatus bay, the Charger was sitting on the grass strip next to the parking lot, and Engine 18 was rolling out.
Thompson was climbing into his seat with the expression of a man who had done nothing wrong and would swear to it in court.
Benny's face was carefully neutral, which was how I knew he'd helped.
I didn't order it. I didn't do it. But God help me, I laughed my ass off.
Santoro emerged from the bathroom ninety seconds later, still tucking in his shirt, to find his car decorating the lawn like a misplaced garden ornament. By the time we got back from the false alarm, he’d already been on the phone with someone — I never found out who.
If Thompson's crew had done that to Martinez's Honda, it would've been a legend.
They'd still be telling the story at retirement parties twenty years from now.
But when my crew did it to Santoro's Charger, suddenly it was "evidence of a hostile work environment" and "questions about Lieutenant Delgado's command presence. "
Evans had called me into his office the next week. "Look, I know Santoro can be... particular," he'd said, not meeting my eyes. "But you've got to keep your guys in line. This kind of thing doesn't look good for someone up for promotion."
"My guys cleared an obstructed bay door so we could respond to a call," I'd said. "They didn't damage anything. They didn't touch him. They moved a car that shouldn't have been there."
"I know, I know. But perception matters, Delgado. You've got to think about how things look."
How things look. The unofficial motto of every old boys' club since the dawn of time. It doesn't matter what actually happened. It matters how the people in power choose to describe it.
My crew had done what any crew would do. They just didn't have to think about how it would be twisted — they'd never had to. That was a weight they didn't carry. I didn't blame them for it.
And honestly? If it hadn't been the car, it would have been something else.
A call I ran that made him look slow. A commendation that should have been his.
The way I answered a question in an officer's meeting.
Men like Santoro didn't need real reasons.
They just needed excuses — something to point to when they did what they were always going to do anyway.
The car just made it convenient.
Even so, those were problems I could at least fight, even if the deck was stacked. But the biggest problem — the most unsolvable problem of all — was Cap.
I sank onto my couch, the worn leather sighing under my weight.
I picked up my phone, my thumb hovering over his contact.
I'd seen him yesterday for his treatment, and he'd looked …
tired. More than tired. The strength that had always seemed to radiate from him, the quiet confidence that had mentored half the department, was fading, eroded by the relentless poison of his illness and the equally toxic poison they pumped into his veins to fight it.
My job was to run into burning buildings.
To face down chaos and wrestle it into submission.
But I couldn't fight this. I couldn't command the cancer to stand down.
I couldn't force a solution. All I could do was drive him to his appointments, sit with him in sterile waiting rooms, and pretend I wasn't watching the best man I'd ever known slowly disappear before my eyes.
The helplessness was a physical weight, a crushing pressure in my chest that no amount of training could prepare me for.
I forced myself up, busying my hands to quiet my mind.
I cleaned my already-clean kitchen. I organized my bookshelf by color, then by author, then back by color.
I did a brutal HIIT workout in my living room until my muscles screamed and my lungs burned, the physical pain a welcome distraction from the emotional kind.
By the time I finally collapsed back onto the couch, exhaustion had won.
I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, the kind that only comes after forty-eight hours on duty.
I woke up three hours later, still restless, my body refusing to accept true rest. The afternoon sun streamed through my windows, highlighting the sterile functionality of my living space.
No photos on the walls, no personal touches that might reveal who I was beneath the uniform.
Just clean lines and practical furniture.
Unable to sit still, I grabbed my keys and headed down to the parking lot.
My father's 1995 Ford F-150 sat in my assigned space like a shrine to everything I'd lost and everything I was trying to become.
Miguel Delgado had restored this truck with his own hands, teaching me to hold a wrench before I could properly hold a pencil.
The forest green paint still gleamed despite its age, the chrome bumper reflecting the afternoon light.
I popped the hood and began my ritual inspection.
Oil levels, coolant, belts, hoses — everything Miguel had taught me to check.
The mechanical precision of the engine was soothing in a way that promotion study materials never could be.
Here was something I could understand completely, something I could fix if it broke.
"That's a beautiful truck."
I looked up to find Mrs. Park from apartment 3B standing nearby with her small dog, both of them watching me with friendly curiosity.
"Thank you," I said, wiping my hands on an old rag. "It was my father's."
"Was he a mechanic?"
"Firefighter. But he liked to tinker." I closed the hood, signaling the end of the conversation. Mrs. Park meant well, but I wasn't looking for neighborhood friendships.
"Well, he did beautiful work. Have a nice day, dear."
I watched her walk away, feeling the familiar pang of guilt that came with keeping people at arm's length. But letting people in meant letting them see your vulnerabilities, and in my line of work, vulnerabilities could cost lives.
Back in my apartment, I made a simple dinner — grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, brown rice. Fuel, not pleasure. As I ate, my phone rang with a number I recognized but dreaded.
"Hi, Mom."
"Mija," Carmen's voice carried that particular mix of love and disappointment that only mothers could perfect. "How are you? You sound tired."
"Just got off shift. I'm fine."
"Are you eating enough? Taking care of yourself?"
"I'm fine, Mom." I could hear the edge creeping into my voice.
A pause. "I heard about Captain O'Sullivan. Ramona Martinez's daughter works at the hospital. She said he's been in for treatments."
Ramona Martinez. Of course. The Latino community in our city was small enough that everyone knew everyone's business.
"He's fighting it," I said carefully.
"Ay, mija. This job …" Another pause, heavier this time. "Maybe this is a sign. You could go back to school, get your nursing degree like you always talked about. David has connections at the hospital where he works."
David. Her new husband, the accountant. Safe, stable, everything my father hadn't been.
"I'm already in school, Mom. For my Captain's exam."