2. Death and Transformation
Death and Transformation
KNOX
The fire was in every direction. Heat on my face, on my arms, the smoke so thick I couldn't see more than a few feet ahead of me.
"Beckett!" My voice was so small, it disappeared into the noise.
I could hear him barking somewhere deeper in the warehouse. I tried to go toward it, but the corridor was a wall of orange and the floor was too hot under my feet.
"Knox!"
My older brother grabbed me. He hauled me up over his shoulder, one arm locked around my legs, as he ran through the warehouse that was rapidly getting consumed by the flames.
"Gage! Beckett's still in there! I heard him, he's still in there!"
"I'll come back for him. I need to get you somewhere safe first!"
He set me down on the grass next to my friends, then ran back to save our dog.
I watched the building collapse on top of my brother as the beam came down on me.
Suddenly I was thirty years old.
I couldn't remember hitting the floor. My neck was wet and hot from my ear to my collarbone.
"Knox! Talk to me, brother!"
Wyatt's voice cut through my PASS alarm. He pulled me out into the parking lot where I saw her.
Dark hair. Soft hands pressing into my neck, holding me together. Her face above mine against the night sky, so close I could see nothing else. She was speaking to me in a voice that was steady and warm and wouldn't let me go.
"Stay with me, Knox."
My PASS alarm shrieked louder and louder and then—
I opened my eyes.
My alarm was going off. 5:15 AM. I reached over and shut it off.
That dream again.
I rubbed my eyes and kicked off the blanket.
It had been two years since the beam collapse. Twenty since Gage died. But in the dream, it was all the same night.
I took a sip of water from the glass on my nightstand, then got up and headed to the bathroom.
Station 110 was quiet when I pulled in. The bay doors were up, the engine and the ladder sitting where they always sat. I parked, grabbed my bag, and went in through the bay.
I could smell breakfast before I got through the bay doors. Greene was at the stove in the kitchen, moving between two pans with a towel over his shoulder. He'd been up since four, probably.
"Morning, Sullivan. Eggs are almost up."
I tossed my bag in my locker and changed into my station shirt.
Thompson came out of his office. "A-shift, let's go. Changeover."
C-shift's captain ran through the handoff. Apparatus was good, engine had a slow leak in the rear left that maintenance was aware of, no open incidents.
"One more thing before we hand off. I got a briefing from Metro yesterday." He had a printout in his hand but didn't look at it. "PD is tracking a pattern of intentional fires on the east side and parts of North Las Vegas. Residential structures, mostly. They believe it's gang-related retaliation."
The room got quieter.
"At least four fires in the last six weeks that they're confident were set. Accelerants confirmed on two. They're looking at it as an escalation between rival crews operating in those areas." He folded the printout.
Then Thompson took over.
"What that means for us is scene safety.
Any residential fire in those areas, we size up before we commit.
If something looks off on arrival, crowds that don't fit, signs of accelerants, anything that doesn't match a normal fire, we hold at the block and let Metro clear the perimeter before we go in.
On scene, strict accountability. Nobody goes through a door alone, nobody goes in before the line is charged, everybody stays with their partner.
These fires are burning hotter and less predictable than what we're used to, and the people standing at the curb might not be bystanders.
We're there to put water on fire and pull people out. That's it. We clear?"
Nods around the room.
"Alright. Check your equipment." He glanced at the room. "One more thing. Badges is in June. Softball at Lorenzi Park. We're playing LVMPD, and last year was embarrassing, so if you can't hit a ball, learn between now and then. Sign-up sheet's on the board."
"Everyone sign up except Brooks," Travis said. "Can't trust him not to go easy on his girl."
Wyatt straightened up. "What?"
"You're out, Brooks," Thompson said.
"Come on!"
The crew broke up. I was heading for the bay when Thompson caught my eye.
"Sullivan. Got a minute?"
Captain Thompson's office was small. Desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet, and a photo on the wall of his academy class from twenty-five years ago. He closed the door and sat on the edge of the desk.
"Last shift," he said. "The duplex on Owens."
I knew where this was going.
"And if that floor had given out, I'd be writing a letter to your family instead of having this conversation."
I let it stand.
"You're not a rookie, Knox. You know the protocol. You wait for the line, you wait for your partner, and you go in together."
He crossed his arms.
"Two years ago, after you took a beam through the neck pulling a civilian out of a collapsed structure, I didn't think you'd come back.
With an injury like that? Most guys would have walked away.
But you came back. Cleared medical, passed every eval, and showed up for your next shift like it was any other Monday. I respect that."
He scratched the back of his head.
"But since you came back, you've been pushing harder.
Every shift, a little more. Going in first, going in alone, making calls that aren't yours to make.
" He paused. "You've told me you want lieutenant.
I know you do. And I think you'd be right for the job.
But the promotional board is going to look at your jacket, and what they're going to see is a firefighter who freelances.
"A lieutenant is responsible for the safety of every person on that crew. The board needs to know you can hold back when it matters, not just push forward." He held my gaze. "You need to rein it in, Knox. Or you're going to lose the thing you've been working toward."
I knew he was right.
"Yes, sir."
"Good." He stood up and opened the door. "Get to work."
Wyatt was running the pump test when I came out to the bay. He looked up.
"What was that about?"
"Nothing. Just reminded me to rein it in."
Wyatt smiled a little. "Yeah. You might want to, if you ever want to see lieutenant."
Before I could answer, Travis came around the side of the engine with a rag over his shoulder. "So. Sunday. The housewarming. What time do I show up and what do I bring?"
"Two o'clock. Bring whatever you want to throw on the grill."
"Done. I'm bringing ribs."
"I'll be there," I said to Wyatt.
"Good. Andy invited Thompson and Zeus Alexander too, so it's going to be a full house."
I turned back to the engine and started checking compartments. Tomorrow was dinner at my parents' house. Sunday was the housewarming. At least there was one thing to look forward to this weekend.
Dr. Cliff and Maureen Sullivan lived in Summerlin, in a house that looked exactly like what it was: thirty years of a doctor's salary in a neighborhood where every lawn was landscaped and every driveway had room for three cars.
When I pulled up, the house was glittering with guests.
Cars lined the street on both sides. Through the front windows I could see people moving between rooms, caterers carrying trays, waitstaff circulating with drinks.
My mother didn't know how to do low-key.
If Maureen Sullivan was hosting, it was semi-formal at minimum, with a catering team, a bartender, and flowers on every surface.
I straightened my tie in the truck and went in.
"Knox!" My mother crossed the foyer before I made it three steps inside. She took my face in both hands and looked at me like she was checking for damage. "There he is. My handsome boy."
"Mom."
"What? A mother can't look at her son?" She smoothed the front of my jacket. "I was hoping you'd be bringing someone with you tonight."
"When did I say I would?"
"You didn't. But I was still hoping." She patted my chest and stepped back. "Go say hi to your father. He's been waiting for you."
Has he.
My father was in the living room, standing at the center of a circle of colleagues. Doctors, mostly. Men and women he'd worked with for decades at CCMC. He looked like he was hosting a board meeting that happened to have appetizers.
"Happy birthday, Dad."
"Knox. Thank you for coming." He shook my hand. Firm grip, brief hold, released. The way you'd greet a colleague you respected but didn't know well.
"Knox Sullivan." Dr. Harlan stepped into the circle with a glass of scotch. He looked different out of scrubs, more relaxed, but his eyes still had that attending's habit of assessing everything in front of him. "How's that neck? Giving you any trouble on the job?"
"No, sir. Full range of motion. Doesn't slow me down."
"Good. Station 110 has some of the best paramedics in the valley." He raised his glass toward my father. "You should be proud of this one, Cliff. Firefighters are the real superheroes. The rest of us just clean up after them."
"Yes, yes. Very proud," my father said.
The circle murmured agreement. Someone asked Harlan about the new trauma wing funding. The conversation shifted to hospital budgets and staffing shortages and whether the state legislature was going to approve the new residency slots. I stayed long enough to finish my drink, then excused myself.
I never enjoyed these parties. I only came because my mother insisted.
The people were my father's people, the conversations were my father's conversations, and I had learned a long time ago that my role at these events was to show up, shake hands, and confirm that Cliff Sullivan's surviving son was doing fine.
The door to the library at the end of the hall was open.
This was where my mother sat me down to do my homework after that one call from school when the teacher told my parents I never sat still, fought with classmates, and never had my homework done.
My mother stationed herself in the chair by the window every afternoon and watched me work until it was done.
It went about as well as you'd expect. She didn't have the patience and I didn't have the focus, and most nights ended with both of us frustrated and nobody having learned anything.
Gage eventually relieved her of that duty, which we both appreciated. Between my mother and Gage, Gage was the better teacher. He'd sit across from me at the desk, spread out his own homework, and work through mine with me like it was no big deal.
The room still looked the way she kept it. The reading chair still by the window. Books lined up on the shelves, bookended with crystal figurines and little marble sculptures she'd collected over the years. And on the built-in beside the door, a row of framed photographs.
I picked up the one in the middle.
It was a photo of the three of us on the back lawn. I was maybe eight, Gage was thirteen. Beckett was between us, tongue out, ears up. Gage had his arm around my shoulder. I was holding Beckett's collar with both hands like I was afraid he'd run off.
Everyone was smiling.
I put it back and went to find my mother to say goodbye.
I took the long way home past the medical district where my father had spent more hours than he ever spent in our house.
The gas station a few blocks from CCMC was still open. I pulled in and put the nozzle in the tank.
The diner on the opposite corner had its lights on. Two women came out. Both of them in scrub bottoms and jackets, laughing about something as they walked to their car. I couldn't see their faces from across the street. Just the sound of their laughter carrying across the parking lot in the quiet.
I never got to say thank you to the woman who held me together when that beam collapsed. Never got her name.
I'd wondered ever since where she ended up. If she was still in Nevada at all.
The pump clicked off. I got back in the truck and headed home.