Chapter 2 – Austin
"Rivers, you planning to inventory that same shelf all night?" Logan calls from across the bay, zipping up his jacket. "Some of us have places to be."
I slide the trauma kit back into its compartment. "Just being thorough."
"There's thorough, and then there's whatever you do," Bradley chimes in, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen.
"Just because some of us don't consider 'mostly clean' the same as 'inspection ready,'" I toss back, sliding the compartment shut with a satisfying click.
Bradley snorts. "Chief’s golden boy strikes again."
"I'm not—" I start to protest, but Arthur cuts me off as he walks past.
"Give it up, Rivers. You've been Paul's project since day one. Never seen him invest in a rookie like he has with you." Arthur's voice is gruff but not unkind. "Though if you polish that chrome one more time, I'm hiding the cleaning supplies."
I duck my head, pretending the teasing doesn't secretly please me.
"Chief's looking for you, by the way." Bradley adds.
I nod, closing the compartment with a satisfying click. The station feels different at shift change. Quieter, more focused. I find Paul in his office, bent over paperwork.
"Inventory's complete on Engine 2," I report, standing a little straighter. Even after almost a year, I still feel that need to prove myself to him. "All medical supplies stocked and SCBA tanks at full pressure."
Paul looks up, his expression neutral but approving. "Good work today, Rivers. That ladder drill was clean."
Coming from Paul Hawkins, that's high praise. I try not to let my satisfaction show too obviously. "Thank you, sir."
Before he can respond, Nathan pokes his head in. "Evening crew's here. We're cleared to go."
Paul nods, gathering his things. "Head home, Rivers. Get some rest."
We walk out together into the bay where Arthur and the others are already exchanging information with the night crew.
The station buzzes with the routine handover—equipment checks, situation reports, the small details that keep everything running smoothly.
Through the bay doors, I can see that twilight has deepened into early evening, stars just beginning to appear above Whitetail Falls.
I'm reaching for my jacket when the alarm sounds, cutting through the calm with its insistent wail. Every body in the bay stiffens, heads turning toward the dispatch speaker.
"Engine 2, Ladder 19, respond to structure fire, 1425 Willow Creek Road. Report of smoke and visible flames. Hawkins Pottery."
The world stops for a fraction of a second. Paul freezes mid-motion, his keys dangling from suddenly rigid fingers.
"Hawkins Pottery," Arthur repeats, his eyes darting to Paul.
"Gear up," Paul orders, his voice unnaturally steady. "Now."
We move as one organism, muscle memory taking over as we pull on turnout gear. My heart hammers against my ribs, thoughts racing faster than my hands can work the clasps and straps.
"Chief," I begin, but he cuts me off with a sharp look as we climb onto the engine.
"Focus, Rivers. Do your job." His tone leaves no room for personal concern, but I see it in the tightness around his eyes—fear for his sister, professionally contained beneath years of training and discipline.
The engine roars to life, sirens splitting the quiet evening as we pull out of the station.
The familiar weight of my gear should be comforting, but tonight it feels like borrowed armor, inadequate against the dread building in my chest. Bradley navigates the darkening streets with practiced urgency, red lights reflecting off storefronts decorated for Christmas.
"Two-minute ETA," he calls over his shoulder.
I check my SCBA straps, secure my helmet. Next to me, Paul is stone-faced, radioing dispatch for updates. His composure is almost inhuman, but I catch the subtle tells, the white-knuckled grip on his radio, the muscle working in his jaw.
"Visible smoke from a block out," Nathan reports from the front seat.
I lean forward to see through the windshield. Against the indigo twilight sky, a dark plume rises, illuminated from below by an orange glow. Not just smoke—active fire. My stomach knots.
"Rivers, Parker, primary search," Paul directs, his voice cutting through my thoughts. "Logan, Bradley, attack line. Nathan, utilities. Arthur, ventilation assessment."
The engine pulls up to the small converted garage that houses Hawkins Pottery. Flames visible through the windows, smoke pouring from under the eaves. Two neighbors stand in the yard, one on a cell phone, the other gesturing wildly toward the building.
"She's inside!" the woman calls as we jump from the truck. "Michelle's still in there, I saw her lights on just twenty minutes ago!"
Paul hears it. For a split second, his professional mask slips, revealing raw fear before command training reasserts itself.
He's moving toward his position, radioing information, organizing the response. But his eyes keep darting to the burning building, his body unconsciously angling toward it.
I step directly into his path, a decision made in a heartbeat.
"Let me go," I say, voice low and urgent. "I'm faster. You need to run command."
I see the struggle in his expression, the warring impulses of brother and fire chief.
"Paul," I say, using his first name deliberately. "I'll find her."
His nod is almost imperceptible, but it's there—trust passing between us like a physical object.
"Go," he says.
I'm moving before the word fully leaves his mouth, Parker falling in behind me. I pull my mask over my face, take my first regulated breath through the SCBA. The tank feels heavy on my back as we approach the studio door, heat radiating in visible waves.
"Fire department!" I shout, pounding on the door. No response.
I test the handle, it’s hot, but not searing. Locked. I step back, then forward with purpose, my boot connecting with the wood beside the handle. The door gives with a splintering crack.
Smoke billows out, thick and acrid, not just wood smoke, but also the chemical smell of burning glazes and clay. The heat hits like a wall, but I push through, staying low, scanning what I can see through the mask.
"Michelle!" I call out, the sound muffled through my mask. "Fire department! Call out!"
We move methodically, Parker and I separating slightly to cover more ground. The floor creaks beneath my boots, and somewhere above, I hear the ominous crack of compromised structural supports.
"Primary search, first quadrant clear," Parker reports into his radio.
I push deeper, toward where I remember the kiln standing. The smoke is thicker here, the heat more intense. Through the haze, I can make out the kiln's silhouette—door hanging open, orange glow inside. The source of the fire.
Sweat runs down my back, soaking my shirt beneath the turnout gear. My breaths come steady through the regulator, but my heart pounds an urgent rhythm against my ribs.
"Michelle!" I call again.
A sound answers from my left, faint but distinct. Not a voice, but movement. I turn, sweeping my flashlight through the smoke, and catch a glimpse of color—the blue of a sweater, a pale hand.
She's on the floor near the kiln, partially hidden behind a fallen shelf.
Still, so still. My training takes over, pushing aside the fear that threatens to choke me.
I move to her side, gently rolling her onto her back, checking for obvious injuries.
Her face is smudged with soot, her breathing shallow, but she's alive.
The same smudge of clay I noticed on her cheek yesterday is still visible beneath the smoke stains.
"I've got her," I call to Parker, then into my radio: "Victim located, unconscious but breathing. Extracting now."
I slide my arms beneath her, one under her knees, one supporting her back, and lift. Through my gear, I can feel the slight rise and fall of her chest.
Her breaths are barely there—shallow, ragged, the kind of respiratory pattern that means she’s running out of time.
Even through my mask, I hear the faint, wet hitch in her inhalation, a sound that sends a bolt of fear straight through me.
She coughs once, a weak, broken sound against my shoulder, and that’s when I make the decision.
I drag a steadying breath through my regulator, then unclip the seal of my own mask with one hand, forcing myself to stay calm even as hot air rushes in around my face.
“Stay with me, Michelle,” I whisper, though I don’t think she can hear me.
I press the mask gently over her mouth and nose, holding it in place with my gloved hand so she gets the full flow of clean air. Her next inhale is deeper—still shaky, still fragile, but better. Relief hits me hard and fast, leaving my own lungs burning with smoke I take in raw.
The world narrows to the sound of her breathing against my mask, to the feel of her chest rising more steadily against my arm. Whatever smoke I take in is secondary. She needs the air more than I do.
"I've got you," I murmur, though I know she can't hear me through the mask, through her unconsciousness. "I've got you, Michelle."
For a moment, I feel the faintest twitch of her fingers against my turnout coat, a weak grasp that slips almost as soon as it forms. It’s nothing, but it hits me like a jolt. She’s fighting. She’s still with me.
The surge of relief is sharp, almost dizzying, and I tighten my hold just enough to keep her secure as I pick my way back through the smoke.
The path back seems longer, more treacherous.
For a split second I hear nothing but the sharp, splintering snap above us—a sound every firefighter instinctively recognizes and never forgets.
The beam drops fast, a dark shape cutting through the smoke.
My body moves before my mind does, training and something far more primal overtaking thought.
I drop lower over her, pressing her to my chest, bracing for impact.
Heat washes across my back, intense enough that I feel it through my turnout gear. Embers bite at my neck and exposed jawline, but she’s fully covered beneath me. I feel her flinch against my chest, her breath hitching against the mask I’m holding to her face.
For a terrifying moment, I’m certain the beam will connect, but it slams into the floor inches behind us, showering sparks across the debris instead.
Parker appears from the smoke to my right, signaling toward a clearer path.
Each step is deliberate, measured. The weight of her in my arms centers me, focuses me. I refuse to stumble, refuse to falter. Not with her life in my hands. Not with Paul's trust on my shoulders.
The doorway appears through the smoke, a rectangle of evening sky, a promise of safety. Three more steps. Two. One.
Clean, cold air hits my face as we emerge from the burning building. I hear shouting, see movement as the medical team rushes forward with a gurney. Paul's face appears in my field of vision, pale beneath the soot from the command post, his eyes fixed on his sister's still form in my arms.
I don't release her until Paul reaches us, his hand gripping my shoulder in silent acknowledgment as the paramedics take over.
Michelle's face is peaceful despite everything, the clay smudge still visible beneath the soot.
Something fierce and protective surges through me as I watch them place an oxygen mask over her face.
Cold air stings the back of my neck, sharp enough to make me wince. Only then do I register the raw burn along my jawline where the embers must’ve caught me, but it barely registers under the adrenaline still flooding my system.
"Rivers," Paul says, his voice rough.
I nod, understanding. Behind us, the studio continues to burn, flames now visible through the roof.