A few days later.

In the dead of night, I was roused not by the blaring of my alarm, but by the acrid scent of smoke. My groggy brain conjured images of Mom's midnight snack escapades, but a bleary-eyed glance at my trusty LED watch 2:14 AM had me wondering, "Who in their right mind fires up the grill at this ungodly hour?"

I stumbled out of bed, fumbled for the door, and—lo and behold—there it was: a fire, dancing merrily in the hallway. For a split second, I contemplated a life of serene solitude, leaving behind the woman who'd endured labor for me. But, alas, conscience is a pesky thing.

With a swift kick worthy of my Navy days, I turned my bedroom wall into an impromptu escape route, just wide enough for two. "Mom, hit the fire alarm!" I hollered, preceding the usual debate.

Miraculously, she complied without a single retort, springing into action like a cadet on drill day. Meanwhile, I channeled my inner drill sergeant, pounding on neighbors' doors "Evacuate! This is not a drill!"

Just like that, we were a conga line of pajama-clad refugees, shuffling to safety, courtesy of your truly accidental hero and part-time fire marshal.

There I was, standing amidst the chaos like the last sailor on deck, making sure every person had abandoned ship—er, apartment. The smoke was thick enough to slice, and I couldn't help but cough out a smoky, "Ahoy!"

Then, through the haze, a voice cut through, "Macaroni?" It was none other than Lieutenant Valkery, sounding as calm as if she were ordering a latte instead of navigating a fiery inferno.

"Lieutenant," I rasped back, "we've got a blaze in 12D, drop two. It's spreading faster than gossip in the mess hall. And heads up—the windows are built for high pressure."

"Copy that, 137, drop two," Valkery barked back, with the authority that could make even the flames stand at attention.

As we waited for the cavalry to arrive, the chill of the night air had me regretting my choice of pajamas—or lack thereof. Clad in nothing but a sports bra and boxer shorts, I was shivering like a chihuahua in a snowstorm.

Mom, ever the optimist, tried to distract me. "Reminds me of waiting in line for a rock concert in my wilder days," she mused, a wistful smile on her face.

I couldn't help but roll my eyes. "Love to burst your bubble, Mom, but those rock gods you adored? Most of 'em were just moving their lips to a pre-recorded track. There's more authenticity in a can of Spam."

I spat out the taste of smoke and nostalgia, turning to Mom with a smirk. “You know, this isn’t the '70s. That ship sailed about 40 years ago. You’re nudging 47, and all this reminiscing is gonna make you feel like your spine’s about to go on strike. Pop’s silent because he knows the minute he starts on about his ‘good old days’, he’ll have to face the music—that he’s not a spring chicken anymore, and that the '70s and '80s might as well be ancient history.”

Mom just rolled her eyes, but I could tell she was fighting back a laugh. Let’s face it, sometimes you’ve got to poke fun at the past to keep the present from burning down around you.

Mom eyed the firefighters with annoyance. "How do they even do their job?" she pondered aloud, her voice tinged with a cocktail of curiosity.

I shrugged, the glow of the flames reflecting in my eyes. "They're firemen, Mom. It's not like they can just stand there, gawking at the fire and saying, 'Gee, that looks rough.' Unlike my cousin-in-law Linda, who knows her exit is only after everyone else's safety is secured."

She opened her mouth, probably to deliver a classic mom-ism, but I cut in. "Look, I'm a Millennial, sure, but political correctness isn't my jam. If the situation calls for it, I'll drop the gender-neutral lingo faster than a UFO zipping out of sight. And in this new world order, where aliens call the shots? Let's just say, political correctness is about as popular as a witch at a Puritan tea party."

Mom gave me that ‘I-told-you-so’ look. “You left your phone back there, didn’t you?” she said, with a hint of a scold in her voice.

I just flashed a grin, the kind that’s seen more than its fair share of boot camp smirks. “Mom, you can keep your computers, emails, and phones. Just hand me some good ol’ pen and paper. I’m old school like that.”

Sure, my phone was probably melting into a modern art masterpiece back in the apartment, but who cares? I’m not one to get attached to things nor materialistic. Worst case scenario, I’ll hitch a ride back to the States and snag a new one. Nothing fancy, just something that can call or text someone. I don't need every bell and whistle.

I squared my shoulders, ready to lay down the law. “I’m heading to my girlfriend’s place to crash for a bit,” I declared, already picturing the comforting embrace waiting for me there.

Mom perked up, “Oh, I’ll come with you then!”

I shot her a look that could freeze lava. “Not happening, Mom. I’m not about to let you work your… ‘charm’ on her kids, getting them to wait on you hand and foot. And let’s not forget, everyone who’s ever lifted a finger for you did it because you twisted their arm with your mind games, only to toss their kindness back in their faces.”

She opened her mouth, probably to protest, but I wasn’t having any of it. “Nope, this time, you’re on your own. I’m off to be with my girl, where the only fire I want to see is in the fireplace, not the hallway.”

Mom’s question hung in the air, tinged with the scent of smoke and uncertainty. “So, what’s the plan? A motel? A hotel?” she inquired, her eyes searching mine for a hint of sympathy.

I couldn’t help but chuckle, despite the night’s events. “Well, if you’re feeling nostalgic for the good old days, there’s always the option of a flophouse. I hear they’re going retro with rates at $0.25 a night,” I quipped, winking at her. “But don’t worry, I’m sure we can find you a place with a few more stars and a lot less… character.”

It was a moment of levity amid chaos, a reminder that even when the world’s on fire, you can still find a reason to smile.

Mom’s words stung like salt in a wound. “Some daughter you turned out to be,” she spat, her disappointment a tangible thing in the smoky air.

I squared my shoulders, ready to stand my ground. “And what kind of mother does that make you?” I shot back. “I’ve got vivid memories, you know. You sprawled on the couch, indulging in every vice imaginable, trying to mold me into a mini-you—dishonest and prickly as a cactus. But Dad, he was different. He taught me the value of loyalty, honesty, and the courage to be unapologetically myself.”

I could feel the heat of the fire and the heat of the moment, blending into a fiery cocktail of raw emotion. “He was there, accepting me when I came out, at a time when being bisexual was more taboo than accepted. You? You dismissed it as a ‘phase.’ Well, guess what, Mom? Some phases, like diamonds, are forever.”

The flames had finally bowed out, their fiery dance coming to an abrupt end. Lieutenant Valkery approached, her silhouette cutting through the lingering smoke. “Well, someone’s clearly not a fan of yours,” she quipped, a wry smile playing on her lips.

I couldn’t help but smirk back, despite the night’s drama. “Yeah, I think the charred remains of my apartment are a pretty clear ‘Dear John’ letter,” I retorted, my nose still twitching from the lack of gasoline stench.

Just then, headlights pierced the darkness—a car rolling up like the cavalry in an old western. Valkery leaned in, her voice low. “Called your girl with the payphone inside,” she said, tapping my arm and leaving a smudge of soot as a parting gift.

“Thanks for that,” I muttered under my breath as she strode away, the name ‘Valkyrie’ fitting her more than ever. She might not have wings, but she sure knew how to swoop in at the right moment.

I leaned against a concrete wall, catching snippets of conversation from Lieutenant Valkery and her crew. “You learn not to box with 137 on the job,” she said, a note of respect in her voice that was usually reserved for the men and women of Engine and Ladder Company 23.

Just then, my girlfriend, Lusty—short for Lyricist, though I’ve never quite connected the dots on that one—strutted over. Her nickname might suggest something else, but to me, it’s spot-on; she’s the epitome of health and vitality.

She wrapped me in a hug that could rival any fireman’s carry. “She saved multiple lives on the way out. In her skivvies no less,” Valkery announced, returning to us with a smirk.

Lusty, ever the rock in my stormy sea, just nodded. “I’d have been shocked if she hadn’t. But tell me, Lieutenant, between you and me—what’s the word?”

Valkyrie's eyes hardened, the playful glint replaced by the steel of certainty. “No question, no doubt about it. This was arson.”

Lusty, ever the gracious host despite the hour and the circumstances, opened her doors to us. “Just for tonight,” she insisted, glancing at my watch which was inching towards 3 AM. “Your mom’s got her part-time gig in the morning, then she can scout out a motel.”

I wasn’t about to pick a fight with my girlfriend, not when she was offering sanctuary. So, we ascended to her penthouse, a haven high above the city’s scars. Mom claimed the couch, sinking into it with a sigh that carried the weight of the night’s events. Meanwhile, Lusty and I retreated to the bedroom, a silent agreement between us that some conversations could wait until the world wasn’t burning—at least, not literally.

_____________________________________

As dawn broke, I was the first to rise, the quiet of the morning a stark contrast to the night’s turmoil. In the kitchen, I whipped up a breakfast spread fit for a weary crew—my girlfriend, the infamous ‘mother’ figure, and her bright-eyed kids.

Mom ate her plate with the speed of someone on the run, then bolted out the door, off to her job. Lusty, in her infinite wisdom, orchestrated a brief interlude before ushering her kids off to school—a moment of calm before the day’s storm.

Out of the blue, I mused aloud, “We’re not the top species on the planet because we’re nice.” It was a random thought, a leftover from the night’s adrenaline.

Lusty, ever the philosopher, met my gaze. “I know, Mac. Wars aren’t won with paddy cake. They’re won by baring teeth, by proving you’re willing to go the distance, to unleash the beast within.” Her words were a reminder of the raw, untamed spirit that had carried us through the night and would carry us through whatever battles lay ahead.

I sighed, the weight of the world—or at least the weight of familial expectations—resting on my shoulders. “It’s like she’s got this twisted high score in her head, where the guy’s bank balance is the only thing that racks up points,” I said, shaking my head.

Lusty’s brow furrowed in thought. “It’s that old-school mentality, isn’t it? Like those teachers who’d look down on tradespeople, not realizing those ‘blue-collar’ jobs can bring home some serious green.”

I chuckled, despite the bitterness. “Yeah, and about those credit cards—back in the States, there are some with no spending limits. It’s like a financial Wild West. But here? Little Bird’s got a different set of rules. Credit lines cap out at $30k-50k. No unlimited spending sprees in this neck of the woods.”

Lusty nodded, a mix of already knowing and understanding in her eyes. “Guess that keeps things grounded, huh? No room for gold-digging when the gold mine’s got a fence around it.”

Lusty’s words painted a picture of a love that was simple yet profound, the kind that didn’t need the validation of material wealth or societal approval.

“Your folks had something special, the kind of bond that’s worth more than any credit limit,” I said, my voice soft with respect. “A slice of pizza and each other’s company—that’s the real deal, the kind of romance that outshines any diamond.”

I took a deep breath, the memories of my own upbringing bubbling to the surface. “As for my mom, let’s just say she’s got her own… unique way of showing love. Once I was done with school, she had a lineup of ‘suitors’ waiting for me, as if I was the prize in some twisted game show. But I wasn’t playing along. I’m not a trophy to be won, and I sure as hell don’t need a hammer to get my point across.”

“Look, Lusty,” I started, leaning back against the brick wall, "we’re like mismatched socks in a laundry basket. You’ve got that old-school charm, treasuring every little thing 'cause that’s all you had. Riding the bus like it’s a limo and chatting up folks face-to-face 'cause texting wasn’t a thing. And me? I’m the poster child for the instant generation—orange juice from a packet, apple juice that never saw an apple, and cartoons on demand. But hey, we both get it, right? Appreciating what’s in our hands today 'cause who knows if it’ll slip away tomorrow.

Back in high school, I watched kids burn through cash faster than a wildfire. There was this one girl, ninety pairs of shoes lined up like soldiers, and she’d still wail about having nothing to wear. Me? I had two pairs—sneakers for gym and those Minnetonka Moccasins. Wore those sneakers 'til they literally disintegrated. That’s real life, not some fashion show."

Lusty chuckled and shook her head. “Macaroni, you crack me up. In my day, fashion was a rerun of a 50’s sitcom’ Guys in flannel and loafers, gals in dresses bright enough to direct traffic. But we’re on the same page about one thing—money flies faster than gossip in this town. I knew a gal, never worked a day in her life, but had a boyfriend flipping burgers and footing her bills. And where I come from? Dropping out to work wasn’t a choice; it was survival. Helping the family keep the lights on—that’s the kind of stuff you don’t forget.”

“Slapping trays, delivering orders, and pouring coffee, that was my high school hustle,” I told Lusty, leaning on the counter. "Raking in $130 a week, feeling like the queen of coins. But you, babe, you were the master of the dime, stretching that $27 like it was a fortune. Me? Every cent was a soldier sent to battle the bills 'cause Mom was too busy kissing every vice in town.

"And saving up for that lemon on wheels? Felt like I was squeezing pennies just to keep it chugging along. This was way before the days when Starbucks planted its flag on every block."

Lusty squinted, puzzled. “Starbucks? What in Hell is that?”

“It’s like a bank, but instead of cash, they hand out coffee for $3.55 a pop,” I explained with a smirk.

Lusty burst out laughing. “Who’d fork over nearly four bucks for a cup o’ joe? I’d rather dash to Joe’s down the street, where a dime still buys you a brew. That’s the real deal, not some fancy-pants coffee castle.”

I agree and since here in Little Bird that if a normal cup of coffee is ten cents while a large cup of coffee is twenty cents and if you’re going to bring in a place that costs four bucks for coffee well no one will go to it.

Lusty caught me staring off into the distance, the gears in my head grinding away. “Penny for your thoughts, Mac?”

I snapped back to the present, “Just had a cousin on my mind, wondering what he’d make of the war.”

She nodded, her voice taking on a somber tone. “He’s probably up there, calculating how that Little Bird doctrine would rain down hell—a week at the least, a month at most. Imagine, 30 rounds a minute from a 105mm cannon, or 30 rounds an hour from a 240mm behemoth.”

I opened my mouth to add my two cents but stopped short. Memories of Lusty’s dad, a tough-as-nails vet from the Little Bird 9th Marine Division, 12th Artillery Company, flooded in. He served from '68 to '75, a time when a controversial war was going on.

Lusty’s gaze was distant, her voice barely above a whisper. "Talk about his time in 'Nam? Only in his nightmares, Mac. He opened up once, told me about this one that haunted him. Two squads of Leathernecks, our own LBMC, got tangled up in the dark, mistook each other for Charlie. Panic set in, and they called down the thunder—final protective fire. For fifteen harrowing minutes, the sky lit up with fire and fury, incendiaries and white phosphorus painting the night with horror.

"Then, a crackle over the radio—‘Cease fire! Cease fire, you’re hitting Marines!’ My dad scribbled that down, hands shaking, and passed it to the battery commander. The order boomed out, ‘CEASE FIRE!’ And just like that, the shelling stopped. But for fifteen gut-wrenching minutes, they’d been raining hell on their own brothers, all because of a ghost in the jungle."

I could see the weight of the story in her eyes, the kind of weight that never really lifts. It was a stark reminder of the chaos and the fog of war, where friend and foe blur into a nightmare that lingers long after the guns fall silent.

Lusty’s got this way of talking about her dad, you know? Like she’s flipping through an old photo album with her words. He never shook off that one day—coordinates scribbled, orders shouted, and the world exploding in fire and confusion. He didn’t believe in therapy; said his family was his lifeline, the anchor that kept him from drifting too far into the past.

She’d get this fierce look in her eyes when she talked about joining the military. Her dad, though, had other plans for her—if she ever wore the uniform, he wanted her hands clean of war’s dirt. He’d list off roles like he was reading from a catalog: base engineer, logistics officer, veterinarian, all sorts of specialists—anything but the front lines.

There was this one time, Lusty nearly signed up, ready to trade diapers for dog tags. But life had other plans, and she chose to be a mom over a G.I. or a Marine. She doesn’t regret it, not one bit.

But man, the stories she’d tell about her dad’s mess hall—like it was some kind of Swedish meatball shrine. They even had a nickname for it, “Swedish Meatball Company,” 'cause those meatballs were on the menu more than anything else. Guess it’s the little things that stick with you, huh?

Lusty’s mom was a real spitfire, you know? Her friends were all up in arms about her dating a Marine. They tried every trick in the book to split them up, even played matchmaker with every Tom, Dick, and Harry they could find. But Lusty’s mom? She wasn’t having any of it. Told her so-called friends to take a hike. She was loyal, sending letters filled with love and support across the ocean, keeping their connection alive despite the miles.

Get this—while her beau was dodging bullets, Lusty’s mom was hitting the books, training to be a therapist. By the time he returned from 'Nam, she had her diploma in hand and a plan in mind. She was dead set on getting him into college, dreaming of him landing a degree and a cushy job. But Lusty’s dad, he was cut from a different cloth. Didn’t care one bit about who brought home the bacon, just happy to have his girl by his side. That’s the kind of love story that sticks with you, isn’t it?

Cracking open a cold one, that cola fizzing like the morning heat ain’t no thing. “Nothing beats that chill,” I mused, taking a swig.

Lusty was leaning on the counter, her voice tinged with a mix of anger and sadness. “You know, my folks had it rough. Mom got caught in some lovestruck patient’s fantasy, ended up with a lawsuit that cost her everything. License gone, dreams shattered, and there we were, swapping our cozy prefab for a cramped tenement. People yap about poverty like it’s a problem to solve, not realizing for some, it’s just life. It’s about making do, not moaning about what you don’t have.”

I nodded, setting the bottle down. “Reminds me of the old days my granduncles talk about. Lines of men waiting for a day’s work. We’ve come a long way since then—healthier, and smarter, but somehow, we’ve lost touch. Kids today don’t know the meaning of ‘wait.’ It’s all instant this, instant that. And the real problems? Where’s the instant fix for that, huh?”

Lusty’s eyes were fierce. “Like that kid Squad 141 found, skin and bones 'cause his folks couldn’t be bothered, Where’s the people up in arms about that? Everyone’s looking for quick answers, but nobody’s willing to dig deep. They want safer cars but won’t invest in making it happen. And don’t get me started on those who treat kids like burdens or paychecks. Where’s the outrage for that?”

I leaned back, feeling the weight of truth in her words. “It’s a world of fast fixes and faster forgets. But some things need more than just a quick patch-up. They need us to care, to really give a damn. And that’s something you can’t get at the snap of your fingers.”

“School was like a showroom for spoiled brats, you know?” I grumbled to Lusty. “Kids throwing fits if the car with the bow wasn’t the right color. I remember this one party, parents snickering at my old man 'cause he didn’t shower me with pricey stuff. But a few? They got it. It’s not about the price tag; it’s the thought that counts.”

Lusty nodded, a wry smile on her face. “Oh, I got ‘the stare’ from my folks whenever I even thought about throwing a tantrum. This one time at the store, I pushed it too far, and Dad’s belt came off faster than a fire alarm. Got a spanking right there in the parking lot. But you know what? I’m grateful for that. Taught me to value what I have, not to whine about what I don’t. Respect and gratitude, that’s the real deal—not some temper tantrum over a shiny toy.”

I rinsed off my plate and cup, setting them in the sink before heading out with Lusty to tackle some errands.

"You know," I said, shaking my head, "some girls back in high school were so damn picky. They'd only date a guy if he was over 6 feet tall, made at least 100k, drive a fancy car, and had some high-status job."

Lusty laughed, rolling her eyes. "That's like searching for a diamond in a pile of diamonds. I get it, though. But for me, whether it's a guy or a gal, I don't care about height, income, car, or job. My folks drilled it into me that using someone and loving someone are worlds apart. Love's what makes you happy, not their bank account. And you, Mac? I don't give a hoot about your Navy salary, your height, or that muscle car you drive. I love you for you, plain and simple.”

I nodded, thinking about Lusty's stories. "Your dad was a real romantic, huh? Two days off a year, and he made them count—Valentine's Day and your mom's birthday. Even when they were scraping by, he'd save up for something special, like a bouquet or a home-cooked dinner. And that 20th anniversary bracelet? A $5k diamond, saved up penny by penny. That's love in action."

I chuckled, remembering the girls from my school days. "I knew some women who'd laugh at a bouquet or a $5k bracelet, calling it cheap. They wouldn't blink at anything under $100k. But your dad, he made every dollar count. Most of that bracelet money came from the military's housing allowance for returning soldiers. He got lucky with the 24-month plan, $100 a month, and he saved every bit of it. Added his own savings to hit that $5k mark. That's dedication."

Lusty smiled, her eyes softening. "Yeah, my dad knew how to show love, even when times were tough. It's not about the price tag; it's about the thought and effort. And that's something money can't buy.”

Lusty’s fingers drummed a rhythm on the wheel, a beat to the truth she was laying down. “Music was a no-go for me, not just 'cause the record labels are like leeches, but 'cause of what my mom said about love. There’s the kind that sticks around, flaws and all, through thick and thin. Then there’s the fair-weather kind, bailing out faster than roaches at last call when things get tough.”

I couldn’t help but agree. “It’s wild, isn’t it? Some folks hear your salary and either scoff or cling like you’re their lifeline. But hit a rough patch, and watch them scatter. Dad always said, the real test of friendship, of love, is who’s standing by you when the storm hits. The ones who stick around? They’re keepers. The rest? They’ll circle back when the sun’s out, but you’ll know they’re just there for the good times.”

Lusty’s story is a testament to the kind of stubborn, unwavering love that’s all too rare. Her mom could have caved under the pressure, could’ve penned that “Dear John” letter and moved on. But she didn’t. She held on, through years of war and worry, and when Lusty’s dad came back, she was there, waiting. That’s the kind of love that doesn’t flinch at the face of adversity or bow to prejudice. It’s love that looks beyond skin color and heritage, that stands firm even when the world’s trying to tear it down.

Lusty? She inherited that strength, that resilience. She never understood the hate from her dad’s side of the family, the cold shoulders, the cruel words. But she remembers the day her mom stood up for her, telling her dad that the apologies were owed to their daughter, not to her. That’s dignity. That’s grace.

Years later, when the extended family showed up, trying to play nice after all the hurt they’d caused, Lusty stood her ground. She knew their regrets were hollow, their pity misplaced. They had their chance to be family, to show love and acceptance, but they chose bitterness instead. Like her parents before her, chose to honor the love that was real, not the late apologies that weren’t worth the breath they were spoken with. It’s a powerful reminder that the true measure of family isn’t blood; it’s the love and respect that binds us.

Lusty’s words painted a vivid picture of her roots—a community toughened by hardship but not easily fooled. “Choosing the fire department wasn’t just about chasing adrenaline for me. it was about doing something that mattered, something respected. My folks, they had their fears, sure, but they backed me because they knew it was about more than just a job—it was about serving a community that doesn’t get swayed by empty promises.”

She’d often talk about the integrity of her district, how they rallied behind leaders like Mayor Martinez and my granduncle, who actually walked the walk. “They didn’t just vote for a name; they voted for action, for people who truly looked out for the working class,” Lusty would explain with a hint of pride in her voice.

When the city tried to pull a fast one, relocating Firehouse 47 and leaving Eastside exposed, her people didn’t just roll over. They educated themselves, held City Hall accountable. “They’re not pawns in some political game,” Lusty would say, her tone firm, “they know when they’re being sold a bill of goods. And they’re not afraid to call it out.”

You know, Lusty’s got this wild tale about the time she played musical chairs with her votes. She once ticked the box for her district rep and the Alderman of Public Safety. But as quick as they were voted in, they were voted out—turns out, our Eastside District Rep was more interested in cashing checks than checking in on his constituents. The Alderman? Said we couldn’t afford new fire gear back in the '80s, yet somehow, the city found a fat stack of cash to build bars over their community gardens. Go figure, right?

But here’s the kicker: the folks of Eastside weren’t having any of it. They boycotted those bars faster than a cat on a hot tin roof, and when they shut down, they threw a little demolition party—Eastside style. They torched the abandoned buildings and took back the land for our crops. City Hall got salty and cut off the water, but did that stop them? Nope. They just tapped into the old cisterns, boiled the heck out of that water, and kept their gardens greener than a frog on a lily pad.

Jobs? Around here, I call 'em “McJobs”—you know, the kind that makes you feel like you’re running in circles, chasing your own tail. Lusty’s mom, bless her heart, was slinging drinks and flipping burgers, dreaming of a day she could trade it all in for a therapist’s couch and a house full of kiddos. But life had other plans, and all they got was our dear Lusty.

Now, Lusty loves to gab about her folks. They remembered when the Little Bird VP took the big seat, and let me tell you, he wasn’t winning any popularity contests. And her dad? Proposed to her mom fresh off the plane from 'Nam in '75. People laughed, said it was too soon, too crazy. But love’s like that sometimes—bold, brash, and a little bit bonkers. They hadn’t seen each other since '68, but when you know, you know, right?

Back in the day, in Alabama, we all had grand dreams. We’d strut around, chests puffed out, talking big about raking in six figures, living in swanky digs, and cruising in rides so shiny, they’d make the sun jealous. College was the golden ticket, or so we thought. But then, life threw us a curveball called reality.

Fast forward, and those same dreamers are clocking in at the golden arches, flipping patties instead of cash. They’re rolling in beat-up cars that have seen better years, all while their fancy phone dreams got downgraded to whatever’s on sale with a two-year contract. It’s a humbling slice of humble pie, served fresh daily.

But here’s the thing: not everyone is destined to strut around in a suit and tie, pulling in a cool 50k before the leaves change colors. Some of us are out here making an honest living, even if it’s just scraping by on minimum wage. It’s not about the cash; it’s about the hustle, the grind, the sheer will to keep pushing, even when the odds are stacked like pancakes at a breakfast buffet.

I never pictured myself hopping countries for love. But when life flings open a door, you don’t just peek in; you charge through it like it’s the last call at a fire sale. So here I am, living proof that the best plans are the ones you never planned at all.

So there I was, playing sidekick to Lusty on her grocery run, when she starts philosophizing about life’s open and shut doors. Her folks had dreams—big ones—but life’s got a funny way of mixing up the blueprints. They ended up with one kid, Lusty, who’s more into counting blessings than counting Benjamins.

Now, Lusty’s got this vintage ride, a real classic. To her, it’s not about the flash; it’s about the function. As long as it fires up and gets her from A to B, she’s golden. She’s not about those shiny new models that lose half their value the minute you roll off the lot. Nope, she’s all about that old-school charm—a car’s a car, whether it’s from the '50s or the '60s.

She’s playing the long game with her cash. Instead of blowing it on the latest gizmo, she’s funneling it into the stock market. She’s got this plan, see, to cash out when her girls graduate, maybe turn a tidy profit. It’s like she’s planting money trees, waiting for them to sprout greenbacks. She says folks around here treat stocks like a clearance sale—buy low, sell high. Who knows, that penny stock might just be her golden ticket one day.

So there we were, Lusty and I, zigzagging through the grocery aisles like we’re on some sort of supermarket sweep. Mom would’ve loved to join the chaos, but she’s busy playing hide and seek with the stock at work. She’s got this ninja move where she sneaks goodies into the cart when Lusty’s not looking—like a culinary Houdini.

Now, post-shopping spree, I’m supposed to shack up in a motel, thanks to some pyro who turned my apartment into a bonfire. The plan was for Mom to crash at my place till her rehab stint wraps up, but let’s be real: I can’t have her spinning her mind games around Lusty’s children. If there was an Olympic event for manipulation, Mom would be standing on the podium, biting into a gold medal.

I leaned in, giving Lusty the lowdown. “At least your dad snagged a lady who loved him for his rough edges, not his wallet. Didn’t matter if the gift tag read a dime or a grand; it was the thought that counted.”

Lusty nodded, “True that. My folks? They were all about those heart-and-soul kind of presents.”

I chuckled, “Man, I knew some gals back in high school who took ‘gold digger’ to a whole new level. If it wasn’t pushing six figures, it might as well have been pocket change. Overheard one at the mall once—‘Don’t waste my time with the bargain bin, honey. If it ain’t over 100k, I ain’t interested.’ Meanwhile, the first sparkler the jeweler showed her was a cool 59k. I mean, come on, a thoughtful trinket for a penny? That’s my jam.”

Lusty shared a slice of nostalgia, “Every Valentine’s, my parents hit the mall, not for the glitz, but for the giggles. They’d cap it off with dinner at the food court—no candlelight, no moonlit strolls, just good ol’ gratitude. Mom was just happy to have someone who got it, you know? Someone who knew that effort trumped extravagance every single time.”

So I said to Lusty, “You know, my old man gifted me these bracelets for my graduations—10k for high school, 15k for college. They’re tucked away like buried treasure now. Dad didn’t have to, but he wanted to mark the milestones. The gals back home? They snickered at the ‘low quality,’ but hey, it’s the sentiment that sparkles, not the carats.”

I remember how they used to rub my dad for his '83 LTD—yeah, that beast of a station wagon with a 4.9L V8 and a 4-speed that’s seen more years than a high school reunion. But Dad? He’s not about that ‘new car smell.’ His first love was a '67 Charger, cherry red and all muscle, until his cousin turned the transmission into a jigsaw puzzle—no reverse, no love.

Dad’s a simple guy: mess with his family, his wheels, or his sports, and you’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest. He’s the type to watch football with the intensity of a coach at the Super Bowl, even if it’s just the Rose Bowl on a lazy Sunday.

Lusty hit me with a question, “Ever catch a football game live with your dad?”

I grinned, “Super Bowl XXXIV, Georgia, January 30th, 2000. Dad and I made a friendly wager before the game—five bucks on the line. I backed the Rams, he rooted for the Titans. By the game’s end, I was a whole ten dollars richer. Those 650 bucks we dropped on tickets? Best investment ever. Dad’s been a Football fanatic since '71, watching from the age of four.”

Lusty’s eyes went wide, “650 for tickets? What, do they sprinkle them with diamond dust?” She scoffed, “Around here, you’d get a seat for a Nightshade.”

After doing a shopping run with Lusty we went back to her penthouse.

________________________________________________

Unloading the groceries at Lusty’s, I tossed the brown paper bags onto the counter and mused, “Bet you, one of these days, America’s gonna ditch plastic bags for those fancy reusable ones, then flip the script and ban those too.”

Lusty, ever the practical one, quipped, “And what was so wrong with paper bags in the first place?”

“Cheaper to churn out plastic than paper, that’s why,” I explained. “It’s all about the bottom line.”

She shook her head, “Ridiculous. We stick to paper 'cause they last. I mean, back in the day, a paper bag was my backpack. Rain or shine, I walked to school storming through storms, scaling mountains, bushwhacking through the woods. No cushy bus ride for us, no sir.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle, “Alright, grandma, let’s tuck you in,” I teased, echoing the tall tales of my dad’s school-bound adventures.

As I unloaded the groceries onto the cool granite countertop, Lusty and I fell into a rhythm, her stowing away the goods while I crisply folded each paper bag flat. It’s like we’re in sync, a well-oiled machine—no need for grand gestures or matching “I’m with stupid” tees to show we’re a pair.

We keep our relationship on the down-low, like a secret handshake. A select few are clued in, and that suits us just fine. To those in the know, it’s clear as day; to everyone else, it’s none of their business. After all, the best things in life aren’t always broadcasted for the world to see.

I raised an eyebrow at the grocery haul. “No instant OJ or apple juice? That’s a first.”

Lusty just smiled, “Nothing but fresh-squeezed goodness every morning, just like my mom used to make. She wasn’t about that instant gratification life. If it didn’t take time and love to cook, it wasn’t on our table. And Macaroni, you know as well as I do, here on Little Bird, TV dinners are the go-to for guys who can’t cook and for families too slammed to simmer a stew.”

I chuckled, “Yeah, it’s the modern-day dilemma—balancing the clock and the kitchen. But hey, nothing beats the taste of a meal made from scratch.”

Lusty laid it out plain and simple, “Raising my kids to be thrifty, to savor those soul-soothing, belly-warming meals, just like my mom taught me. There’s an art to homemade, to making do. Take my wallet, for instance—crafted from shark skin by my mom’s own hands, a relic from her tribal days. And those heels from '64? They’re more than vintage; they’re a testament to the Nightingale tribe’s knack for being crafty, resourceful, and economical.”

I nodded, “She did a number on you, alright. Taught you to be just as resourceful, just as penny-wise. Remember that meatloaf you made one night? We had enough leftovers to stack meatloaf sandwiches sky-high. That’s the kind of resourcefulness that would make your ancestors nod in approval.”

The phone rang, breaking the calm. Lusty snagged it and after a quick chat, she’s telling me she’ll be back in thirty minutes.

I couldn’t resist, “Or it’s free, right?” tossing a jab at those old pizza delivery promises.

She rolled her eyes, “Not chasing down a pizza, Mac. That whole ‘30 minutes or free’ deal was a recipe for disaster. Makes you wonder how many close calls, fender benders, or worse—full-on crashes happened 'cause drivers were flooring it to save a buck. As a Lieutenant Firefighter/EMT, I’ve seen enough to know those accidents were just waiting to happen.”

As I finished tucking away the last of the groceries, I flicked on the TV for a bit of background noise. But the news caught my attention—something about a flu with a rabies twist. The Little Bird Bureau of Human Welfare was on high alert, and the whole city was about to turn into a quarantine zone. Streets barricaded, patrol cars on guard—sounded like the opening scene of a horror flick.

I couldn’t help but quip to the empty room, “If this goes full Zombie apocalypse, I’m grabbing a shotgun, a rifle, and a sidearm.” A smirk played on my lips as I thought back to those late nights conquering Resident Evil. “Those gaming marathons might just pay off. As long a Nemesis doesn’t come for me”

Lusty breezed back in, kids and my mom in tow, just as the news was blaring about the quarantine. I couldn’t help but recall that zombie flick we saw, the one where the city was bathed in an ominous orange glow from the military’s bombs.

“Yeah, that movie,” I mused, sliding ammo into my handgun with a practiced ease. “The whole place was a wreck—skyscrapers gutted, roads torn up, paths blocked off and ash raining down. That orange-red tint wasn’t just for show.”

Lusty nodded. “It’s all about the mood. Red screams danger, war, a deceptive calm before the storm. And blue? That’s the color of sorrow, of what’s lost.”

I clicked the magazine into place. “Well, if life’s gonna imitate art, I’m ready. Let’s just hope it’s more Hollywood than reality.”

Lusty’s got the right idea, pulling out board games to pass the time. “Since we’re gonna be stuck indoors, might as well make the most of it,” she says, setting up the game like a pro.

Under my breath, I can’t help but quote a little fire and brimstone. “As the Good Book says, ‘For by now I could have stretched out my hand and struck you and your people with a plague that would have wiped you off the Earth.’ Exodus 9:15.” It’s a whisper lost in the shuffle of cardboard and dice.

Sandwich in hand, I muse aloud, “If the military rolls in, those video game heavy machine guns and miniguns might not be as handy as they seem. Sure, they mow down zombies in games, but unlike real life? They’re just overheating hunks of metal.”

They give me the eye-roll, classic. But I’ve got to hand it to this city—it’s come a long way from the bad old days. Lusty remembered it well, “Back then, you’d find more street fights than streetlights. Now? It’s like we’ve scrubbed the grime off the streets.”

Lusty’s got a point about steering clear of hospitals during an outbreak. “Clinics and hospitals are ground zero for germs, a real hotbed for contagion,” she says, and I can’t argue with that logic. “And let’s not forget those zombie flicks where the government herds everyone into a hospital for evacuation, like they’re lining up snacks for the undead.”

It’s a no-brainer—hospitals are a magnet for the sick, and in a crisis like this, they’re just about the last place you’d want to be. Lusty’s seen enough horror movies to know that when the government sets up shop in a hospital during an apocalypse, it’s not exactly a stroke of genius.

Sealing up the place, I made sure we were as insulated as could be. “This isn’t exactly how I pictured my day unfolding,” I admitted with a sigh. “Seems like someone’s got a different plan for us.” The thought of travelers stranded at airports crossed my mind, and I winced. “Man, those poor souls with their flights on hold indefinitely. It’s not just about the refunds—it’s the homesick folks, the tourists… what a mess.”

Lusty’s in the kitchen, whipping up snacks for the kiddos, and she’s got this look that says she’s seen it all. “Airports must be a real scene right now. Folks desperate to get home, not giving two hoots about some virus on the loose. And if it’s in the air? Forget about planes and choppers—that’s just a flying petri dish.”

She’s got a point. I remember this one zombie story where the bug was catching rides in the sky, turning passengers into the walking dead mid-flight. Talk about a no-exit nightmare.

“Here in Little Bird, they don’t slap on quarantines for kicks,” Lusty continues, slicing apples with precision. “If this thing went national? You’d have people dialing their embassies faster than you can say ‘outbreak,’ trying to get a ticket out. But all they’d be doing is gift-wrapping the bug for the rest of the world.”

Leaning against the kitchen counter, I couldn’t help but ponder the fate of malls in our city. “You know, the whole mall-as-a-fortress thing in zombie flicks is so played out. It’s like they forget a mall is a colossal space—a small band of survivors wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Curious, I turned to Lusty. “What’s your take on malls in horror films?”

She didn’t miss a beat, “Oh, it’s been beaten to a pulp. That trope’s so old it’s collecting social security. Time to retire it for good.”

Gazing out the window, the sight of barricades going up sends a chill down my spine. “Back in Alabama, I knew guys who lived and breathed Romero’s undead sagas,” I muse aloud. “Never thought I’d see the day when those fictional desolate streets would mirror reality. And that pastor? He’d probably say this outbreak is divine retribution for humanity’s missteps.”

Shaking off the unease, I plant myself in front of the TV, determined not to be that person who blithely switches off the news. In every horror movie, there’s that one character who tunes out the dire warnings, only to regret it later. Not me. I’m staying informed, keeping my eyes peeled on the screen. Ignorance might be bliss for some, but when it comes to survival, knowledge is power.

Lusty’s has a point about the dog-eat-dog world often depicted in zombie flicks. “It’s like a twisted showcase of the worst of human nature,” I reflect. “Instead of banding together, they’re all about outdoing each other. It’s survival of the fittest cranked to eleven.”

I’ve seen my fair share of those movies too, where the fallen comrade gets ditched at the first sign of trouble. “It’s a harsh lesson in teamwork—or the lack thereof,” I add. “They say there’s strength in numbers, and it’s true. A four-man squad is nothing next to a five-man team. Sure, sometimes sacrifices are made, but too often, it’s not about necessity—it’s about selfishness.”

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As the day wound down, I found myself in the kitchen, sliding a couple of frozen pizzas into the oven. The cheesy aroma soon filled the air, promising a simple feast for Lusty’s daughters and us. It’s funny how the little things, like sharing a Meatlovers pizza, can feel so grounding, even when the outside world is spinning out of control.

My mother, usually a whirlwind of opinions and energy, has been unusually quiet, lost in the pages of a book. It’s a change that speaks volumes; maybe this is her way of turning over a new leaf, of showing that it’s never too late to shift gears and start anew. She’s 47, and like Dad used to say, we’ve all got that invisible clock ticking away inside us. It’s a sobering thought that our time is finite, but it’s also a reminder to make the most of the moments we have, to live fully and love deeply, no matter how much sand is left in the hourglass.

My mother, she’s always been a complex enigma. A woman who sought help only to scorn those who extended their hands, including my father. I remember the day she discarded his Bible—a symbol of his quiet faith. He’s a man of God, yes, but not one to preach at doorsteps or judge others’ beliefs. He honors the freedom of faith, or the choice of none, with a gentle respect.

I’ve often pondered what sparked the shift in her, the softening of her edges. Perhaps the looming realization that her earthly journey might conclude within three decades stirred something within her. But for me, the olive branch comes too late. The scars of the past are etched deep, unerasable by time or remorse. She was absent, not just from my life but from my father’s side, lost in her vices.

It was only when I stepped into adulthood that she seemed to recognize the void where her presence should have been during my formative years. But by then, the die was cast. My extended family had become the lighthouse in the fog, guiding me when she couldn’t. They were the ones who witnessed the milestones of my youth, the moments she missed and can never reclaim.

My dad, he’s the kind of man who knows the weight of every hour. Working tirelessly, 50 to 70 hours a week, yet he always found those precious moments to pause, to be there for me. He understood the void that absence leaves in a child’s heart—his own father was a ghost of presence, whisked away to the Korean DMZ Conflict when my dad was just an infant.

Throughout the '70s and early '80s, my grandfather remained an elusive figure in my father’s life, a shadow that never quite materialized into substance. But my dad broke that cycle. He vowed that the history of neglect would not repeat with me. Born in '84, a child of young love and defiance, I never knew my biological grandfather. My dad made that choice, a silent protest against the man who never really played the role of father to him.

Instead, it was my great-uncle who stepped into those shoes, filling the gaps with lessons on life and the workings of an internal combustion engine. He became the mentor, the father figure my dad deserved. And my dad, in turn, became the hero of my own story—always ensuring I felt valued, cared for, and loved, no matter the cost.

As the oven worked their magic, spinning dough into comfort, I found myself drawn to the window. There, I watched the stillness of the street below, where a lone patrol car sat sentinel, dividing the empty lanes with its silent presence. Another drifted by, its lights a fleeting whisper against the backdrop of a city that felt more like a memory than a bustling center of life.

Turning from the glass, I sought the warmth of connection, finding it not in the deserted streets but in the eyes of my girlfriend, Claire. My mother’s disapproval of our love is a storm cloud in a clear sky, but it’s one I’ve learned to navigate. My father, the steadfast beacon, and my family, the chorus of support, understand the simple truth: Claire and I, we’re real. We’re two souls grounded in the earthiness of genuine affection, not in the fleeting currency of convenience. Our love isn’t just spoken; it’s lived, breathed, and cherished in the quiet moments just like these.

The glow of the television cast a somber light as I watched the Mayor’s announcement unfold. A curfew from 7 AM to 6 PM—a decision not made lightly, intended to curb the spread of uncertainty as much as any virus. It’s not a full lockdown; the streets aren’t barred, and the city breathes in hushed tones. Yet, the threat of arrest looms for those who dare to wander past the allotted time.

The news cycles spin tales of speculation, painting narratives without substance.

“This is how fear spreads,” I muttered. “Not with facts, but with conjecture masquerading as truth.”

They’re not guiding us on how to stay safe; they’re fueling the fire of panic. The ring of the phone shattered the silence, and Lusty’s voice carried a note of inevitability as she spoke my name. The call ended, and her eyes met mine with a mix of concern and resolve.

“You have to go into work,” she said, her words heavy with the weight of what that meant. “Even with this outbreak hanging over us.”

As I weave through the alleyways, shortcuts to the station, I carry with me the lessons my dad instilled. He taught me to stand firm in who I am, to recognize the worth of my journey. He said, “If they weren’t there during your struggles, they don’t deserve a seat at the table of your success.” It’s a mantra that’s guided me through life’s labyrinth.

In the flickering light of high school and university days, I saw it all—the allure of popularity, friends clustering like moths to a flame. But when adversity struck, they scattered, swift as cheetahs fleeing the scene, leaving behind nothing but the echo of their departure. They sought the warmth of good times, not the chill of challenges.

Yet, it’s in the contrast of those who flee and those who stay that life reveals its true colors. The steadfast friends, the ones who walk with you through the storms, they’re the treasures. They’re the ones who understand that support isn’t a fair-weather friend. They’re the keepers, the ones who share not just your laughter but also your silence, your tears. They’re the ones who prove that true friendship isn’t about basking in the glow of success—it’s about holding the light for you when the path gets dark.

_______________________________

Squad 769 firehouse

In a swift motion, I darted to my locker, but instinctively, I veered into the sleeping quarters. With a quick turn of the lock, I sealed myself inside and slipped into my station uniform. It’s a ritual now, this dance of caution and readiness.

I maintained a wary distance from my six colleagues. The invisible threat of infection hung between us, unspoken but heavy with implications. I’m not taking any chances; the stakes are too high. It’s a strange thought, isn’t it? Any one of us could be a silent carrier, unknowingly harboring an enemy within.

Peering out the window, my gaze fell upon the familiar silhouette of the old tenement buildings. They’re relics of a bygone era, standing since the early 20th century—sturdy brick sentinels with their steel bones, crowned by modest shops at their feet. Yet now, they’re scenes of a different kind of battle.

I’ve watched the HAZMAT-suited figures enter, a stark contrast to the worn red bricks. They emerge later, leaving behind a chilling marker on the doors: “QUARANTINE. Contagious disease. No one may enter or leave this building by order of the Empire Branch of the Bureau of Human Welfare.” It’s a stark reminder of the times we’re living in, where safety is a luxury and vigilance, a necessity.

It wasn’t long before they were upon us, their presence a mix of reassurance and intrusion. They came to check on us, to peer into our eyes and search for the telltale signs of the sickness that had our city in its grip. I asked one of them—the one with eyes that avoided mine—just how bad this thing was. He hemmed and hawed, his words a carefully choreographed dance around the truth.

But you see, I’m a Waterson. We’re made of sterner stuff. We don’t dress up danger in pretty words or serve reality with a side of sugar. We call it like we see it, straight and true. And if someone’s earned a piece of our mind, they’ll get it, unfiltered and undiluted. That’s the Waterson way—no half-truths, no omissions, just the raw, unvarnished truth. Because in times like these, when fear and uncertainty are as contagious as the virus itself, honesty isn’t just a virtue—it’s our duty.

Many folks out there, they cling to a comforting lie like a life raft in a storm. They'd rather wrap themselves in a soft blanket of falsehoods than face the biting chill of reality. But lies? They're like a debt that always comes due, and when the truth surfaces, as it always does, those lies become a currency of loss.

We Watersons, we don't trade in such currency. We deal in the hard coin of truth because, in the end, it's the only thing that holds its value. Life, it's a tough teacher, and it doesn't hand out cheat sheets. It demands that we face the hard truths, no matter how much they sting.

Let me tell you, we Watersons have a reputation for our brutal honesty. If someone's brave enough to ask for our opinion, we give them a fair warning. "Are you sure you want to hear this?"

Most folks say they want honesty, but they flinch when it's served up raw and unfiltered. But if they insist, if they really want to know what we think, we don't hold back. We give it to them straight, no chaser, both barrels blazing. That's the Waterson way—uncomfortable, maybe, but never uncertain.

Back in high school, I knew some girls who dreamed of snagging a big shot, someone with deep pockets and a flashy lifestyle. I tried to bring them back to earth, reminding them that most rich folks are already married or have families or are miserable windbags. Plus, millionaires and billionaires are rare. They needed a reality check.

I still know people from those days who work at McDonald's or get up at the crack of dawn to collect trash, finishing their shifts by noon. Those girls used to laugh at the idea of dating a trash collector or a burger flipper. But to me, it doesn't matter if my girlfriend is a fry cook or a garbage collector. People take the jobs they need to make ends meet. High-paying jobs are few and far between, but there's no shortage of hard-working, modest, low-paying jobs. And there's no shame in that. It's about the person, not the paycheck.

My girlfriend's father served as a Marine during the twilight years of the Vietnam War. He had the G.I. Bill helped him through college, but he chose not to use it because his wife was supporting him through school. When she lost her therapy license, he didn't hesitate. He dropped out of college and took a minimum wage job as a janitor, earning just $110 a month. His wife found work through a temp agency, taking whatever jobs came her way for chump change pay.

Their story is a testament to resilience and sacrifice. It's a reminder that sometimes, life throws curveballs, and you have to adapt and make tough choices. It's not about the job title or the paycheck—it's about the strength and determination to keep going, no matter what.

After the team left to verify our health status, I found myself questioning the Lieutenant about our relentless duty hours. In response, he simply grasped the right sleeve of my turnout jacket, his finger tracing the contours of the patch emblazoned with the Blue Star of Life. Above it read “EMPIRE,” and below, “EMERGENCY MEDICAL TECHNICIAN.” His silent gesture spoke volumes, yet it skirted the heart of my query.

In the heat of the moment, I had nearly forgotten the legacy of the Fire Department City of Empire’s Bureau of Medical Services. Established in the late 1970s, it was a direct answer to the city’s descent into vice—an era when narcotics gripped the streets, and the existing ambulances, whether city-owned or charity-run, were swamped under the tide of need. The aftermath of Vietnam saw combat medics and corpsmen bringing their battlefield-honed skills to these urban frontlines, treating wounds inflicted not by war, but by the violence that narcotics bred.

Back then, the notion of firefighters doubling as medical professionals sparked controversy. But today, it’s a given—no second glances, no raised eyebrows. It’s a testament to how far we’ve come, how the lines between service roles have blurred in the name of saving lives. It’s not just about fighting fires.

Back in the day, the push to pass the medical services initiative through the Commonwealth of Mountain House of Representatives and the Little Bird Civilian Congress was a battle of perspectives. Supporters painted vivid pictures for the government officials, asking them to imagine their own kin in dire straits, with the nearest ambulance an hour away. Their pleas were echoed by those who knew the agony of loss when every second counted.

Opponents, however, dismissed these concerns as overblown. They had hospitals just a drive away, with the luxury of on-call physicians or the means to summon a fly car. But the idea found its champions among small towns with maybe one or two doctors, among rural folks for whom a hospital visit was a day’s journey, among the elderly who couldn’t make the trip, and among those who had faced the brink of loss.

Before the '70s, firefighters arrived at emergencies with hands tied by lack of medical training. Even when training began, it was basic—just enough to stabilize and perform CPR. But it was a start. Me? I’m a Certified First Responder. I may not be an EMT, but I carry the same resolve to save lives, armed with the knowledge and the will to act when it matters most.

During this outbreak, I know my role and the boundaries it sets. I stick to what I know if a medical emergency call comes in. I’m not about to step outside my lane and risk doing more harm than good. I’m a Certified First Responder, not a Firefighter/Paramedic like the Lieutenant and the rest of the crew. They’ve got the training and the know-how to handle these situations. My job is to support them in any way I can, without overstepping. It’s about working together, each of us playing our part to get through this crisis.

The thought of quartering an ambulance in our already cramped quarters made me speak up. “I’ll hate it if they want to quarter an ambulance with us,” I said, the words spilling out before I could catch them.

Our firehouse, if you can call it that, is more a relic of rebellion than a beacon of safety. It was once a motorcycle clubhouse, echoing with the roars of engines and the wild dreams of those who sought freedom on two wheels. Now, it’s where we hang our helmets and gear up to save lives. The city’s attempt at renovation left us with a space that’s more a tight squeeze than a functional firehouse. Our Rescue Engine dominates the room, leaving little space for much else.

I often find myself wishing for a new station, one built for purpose, not patched together from the remnants of the past. When I look at the modern, eco-friendly stations like 136, 137, and 138, with their separate rooms and state-of-the-art facilities, I can’t help but feel a twinge of envy. They even have room for Rescue Squads and multiple companies.

Our station, Squad 769, lacks the iconic fireman’s pole—a symbol of tradition and rapid response. It’s a stark contrast to the older stations, which still bear the marks of history with their spiral staircases and horse-drawn wagon days. Yet, they’ve been granted the dignity of a fireman’s pole, a luxury we’re denied.

We’re left with an old garage, barely able to accommodate our single Rescue Engine. To bring in another apparatus would be to divide our station in half, creating a barrier within our own walls. We stand alone in the city of Empire as the only station operating a single piece of apparatus, while others boast fleets of two to four. It’s a daily reminder of our humble beginnings and the challenges we face.

False alarms are like the boy who cried wolf—they erode trust and waste precious time. Lusty and Dave have seen it all: the pranks that pull us away from real emergencies, the skeptics who won’t let us in because they’ve been fooled one time too many times. It’s a dangerous game that can leave real cries for help unanswered.

As for our apparatus, it’s as stubborn as the day is long. When it refused to start, I offered to take a look. I’ve got a knack for engines, you see. Back in '97, I breathed life into a '48 pickup that most had given up on. Finding parts for that beast was like searching for a specific piece of hay in a haystack.

So there I was, toolbox in hand, ready to tackle our fire engine’s 100-gallon heart despite the protests. I’m no stranger to getting my hands dirty, and sometimes, you’ve got to bend the rules to keep things running. Meanwhile, the crew tried their hand at fixing the TV, only to have it burst into flames the moment they turned it back on. The irony wasn’t lost on me—they’d insisted I leave the engine to the pros, yet there they were, playing amateur electrician during a lockdown. Sometimes, you’ve just gotta shake your head and smile at the quirks of life.

My dad and grand uncles, they had a philosophy: knowledge is your best tool, and not just for fixing things. They saw how some of my cousins were taken for a ride by slick-talking repairmen, swindled out of hard-earned cash for repairs as phantom as a ghost in the machine. They were easy marks, not knowing a carburetor from a camshaft.

So, they rolled up their sleeves and showed me the ropes. They made sure I knew my way around an engine, that I could spot a scam a mile away. Because when you know what's under the hood, you’re not just saving on repair bills—you’re claiming power. Power over your own life, your choices, and your independence.

It’s paid off. Whenever a mechanic tries to pad the bill with unnecessary fixes, I can call their bluff. I’m not just Macaroni the firefighter; I’m Macaroni the savvy car owner who won’t be hoodwinked. Thanks to my dad and grand uncles, I’m not just tough on the outside—I’m sharp on the inside. And in this world, that’s the kind of strength that really counts.

Thirty minutes ticked by, and the folks from the Bureau of Human Welfare were back, giving us the all-clear. Health in check, I dove back into work. Hours blurred as I tinkered and toiled until, at 7 PM, the engine roared to life, purring like it was fresh off the lot.

The TV, though, was a lost cause. A charred mess inside, it was beyond any hope of revival. No more flickering images or canned laughter—just silence. But I wasn’t caught off guard. I had my own arsenal of knowledge tucked away in my locker: a stack of books, a few encyclopedias. They’re relics of a time when information wasn’t at our fingertips, when knowledge was bound in leather and ink.

Here in Little Bird, the internet might as well be a luxury good, with computers priced out of reach for folks like us. They’re reserved for the desks of offices and the halls of government, not for the hands of the average Joe. But that’s alright. I’ve got pages to turn and worlds to explore, all from the comfort of the firehouse. In times like these, those pages are more than just words—they’re an escape, a journey, a respite from the chaos outside our doors.

The silence of the city is eerie, a stark contrast to the usual cacophony that fills the streets. It’s like living in a scene straight out of a horror movie, or experiencing the unnatural quiet of a rural town on a Sunday night.

Amidst this stillness, the guys reminisced about their past calls—tales of life-saving moments and close calls. I chimed in with my own story, recalling the time I stepped in to save a life. Sure, I’m not a doctor, but at that moment, I did what was necessary. The doctor later gave me an earful, but I stood my ground, bolstered by the Good Samaritan laws that shield those who act in good faith to help others in distress.

In the end, it’s the outcome that counts. The man lived. My dad, ever my champion, defended my actions, reminding the doctor and anyone who’d listen that life is precious, and when it’s in danger, hesitation isn’t an option. He made it clear that next time, if faced with a choice, I’d remember the doctor’s words—but I’d still choose to act, because that’s what Watersons do. We don’t turn away; we step up, even if it means standing alone against criticism. At the end of the day, saving a life is worth any reprimand, any risk, any challenge. That’s the creed I live by, the lesson my dad instilled in me, and the truth that guides me as a firefighter and a first responder.

The guys have their stories, tales of high-stakes runs that turned out to be paper cuts or pulled muscles. It’s a different world in Uptown and Downtown, where the skyline is a chessboard of high-rises and skyscrapers, each piece equipped with the latest in fire suppression technology. They stand like vigilant guardians, their systems so advanced that most fires are quelled before we arrive on scene.

To the seasoned firefighters from those parts, the buildings are fortresses, virtually impervious to flames. On the rare occasion, a fire does spark, it’s often snuffed out swiftly, leaving us to radio a Code 4 and signal the other companies with a 10-02 to head back to their respective quarters.

But then there are the legends, like the one about the colossal high-rise blaze of '63. It’s a story passed down through the ranks, a reminder of the raw ferocity of fire before technology tamed it. We listen, captivated, even though the tale is from an era none of us witnessed, born as we were in the decades that followed.

My phone buzzed—a message from Dad. He’s holed up in a motel for the night, unwinding after a day with family. They’d been curious about my job, and he’d proudly told them I’m a firefighter. It raised some eyebrows; a female Waterson in a firehouse was something they hadn’t imagined, given their memories of a time when such a thing was unheard of, except during the world wars.

But Dad set them straight. He spoke of Little Bird, my home, where history took a different turn. Here, the aftermath of the Great War opened doors for women in the workforce, thanks to the 1937 reworking of the Little Bird Integration Act. It was a move born of necessity, with too many jobs and not enough men to fill them after the war’s heavy toll.

He told them of the tomboy country women, like me, who stepped up to keep farms and towns running, of the all-female motorcycle unit in the Empire Police Department, and of the women who joined the ranks of firemen, despite the protests and the prejudice. When the Second World War called the men away, women didn’t just fill their shoes—they reshaped the very fabric of our society.

I then texted him good night and he should get some sleep because it’s almost midnight where he’s at.

Growing up, my dad had this larger-than-life dream of me becoming a rockstar. He’d say, “Macaroni, you’ve got the fire to light up the world’s stage.” But even as he spun these grand visions, he never missed a chance to ground me with his life lessons. “Remember, kiddo,” he’d tell me, his voice earnest over the clang and clamor of me singing to my favorite songs over the radio, “be kind to the folks you meet on your climb to the top. You never know if you’ll cross paths again on your way down.”

He was right. In this whirlwind life, where fame and fortune can be as fleeting as a siren’s wail, it’s easy to lose sight of where you started. I’ve seen it happen—stars who once shone bright, forgetting the hands that helped them rise, only to find themselves in freefall, their old friends now on the ascent. Dad’s words stick with me, a steady beacon as I navigate the unpredictable blaze of life. It’s not about chasing the spotlight; it’s about illuminating the path for others, just as he did for me.

As the sun sets on the first day of the “Rabivus” outbreak, I find myself reflecting on the whirlwind of events that have unfolded. “Rabivus,” a moniker we coined to encapsulate the ferocity of this rabies-like virus, seems almost too quaint for the chaos it’s unleashed. Here in Empire, the camaraderie among us first responders is our lifeline, and tonight, the guys at Squad 769 and I shared stories to lighten the mood. They ribbed me about an old rescue—a time when I was green and got an earful from a doctor for my lack of medical training. Back then, I might not have known the difference between a tibia and a fibula, but I knew enough to stay by that man’s side until the volunteers arrived.

Now, with the badge of a Probationary Firefighter/Emergency Medical Technician pinned to my chest, I’m itching to give that doctor a piece of my mind. Out here, we’re not just fighting fires; we’re battling an invisible enemy, and every call is a dance with danger—a reality most doctors will never know.

But it’s not just the virus that tests our mettle. My girlfriend Lusty, my cousin, and his wife—they’ve all had their share of run-ins with the less-than-thankful. Lusty recounted a call to a soda shop where the owner was more concerned about his floors than the unconscious patron bleeding on them. She laid down the law, telling him that if we didn’t stabilize the victim for transport, and they died as a result, he’d be staring down the barrel of a lawsuit. Not against us, the fire department, but against his precious establishment. The threat of losing his multimillion-dollar business to a charge of manslaughter was enough to silence him. After all, word travels fast in Empire, and no one wants to frequent a place known for turning away lifesavers.

So, as I brace for day two, I’m reminded of why I do this job. It’s not for glory or gratitude—it’s for the people who need us, for the lives we save in the face of the unthinkable. As long as there’s breath in my lungs, I’ll keep answering the call, no matter what awaits.

Lusty’s stories about the ingratitude we face never fail to amaze me. It’s a strange world here in Empire, where saving lives can sometimes be less appreciated than the inconvenience it causes. I remember her telling me about the time our department was sued over the sound of our sirens. It’s hard to fathom that someone would prioritize their peace and quiet over a life-saving emergency response.

Then there was that driver, furious because we had to break his car windows. They were obstructing a fire hydrant, and in our line of work, seconds count. The law is clear: we have the right to ensure access to a hydrant, even if it means breaking windows. The judge threw out the case, affirming our actions. It’s common sense, really, but common sense isn’t so common, it seems.

Let’s not forget the infamous soda shop owner, who tried to block them during a gas leak. Lusty didn’t hesitate to remind him of the legal storm he’d face if anyone died because of his interference. The threat of a class-action lawsuit made him step aside quickly. It’s ludicrous that we even have to explain such things, but it’s part of the job.

We’ve even been sued for not obeying traffic laws while responding to emergencies. Imagine that—being taken to court for rushing to save someone’s life. Thankfully, those cases are dismissed almost instantly. It’s a reminder that no matter how absurd the obstacle, our duty to serve and protect remains unwavering. So we keep on, sirens blaring and hearts racing, ready for whatever comes next.

I remember the day my cousin Dave, an officer with a laid-back reputation at the station but a true leader in the field, had his own run-in with that notorious soda shop owner. Dave’s approach is different, he doesn’t bother with threats or legal jargon. His priority is clear, help those in need, no matter the obstacle. That day, the scene of the motor vehicle accident (MVA) was chaotic, and Ladder Co 16 had to block off the area, including the soda shop’s parking lot, to secure the site and keep onlookers at bay.

The owner, infamous for his lack of cooperation, was at it again, berating Dave for the inconvenience. This was the same man who once barred the fire department from entering his shop to aid a customer struggling to breathe—a decision that sparked citywide fury. His blatant disregard for human life over business interests led to a boycott of his establishment. When the case went to court, neither the judge nor the jury had any sympathy for him. They saw his actions for what they were: selfish and reckless. Ultimately, the soda shop was sold after the owner faced charges of voluntary manslaughter. He knew his customer needed help, yet chose to prevent it, a decision that cost him everything.

It’s stories like these that remind me why we do what we do. We’re here to serve, to save lives, and to stand up for those who can’t. If that means facing down the ungrateful or the ignorant, then so be it. We’ll continue to do our job, with or without their thanks, because at the end of the day, it’s the lives we save that truly matter.

The year 2003 is etched in our memories, a testament to the resilience and unity of firefighters. I was just still fresh out of high school by two years and still a waitress back then, but the tales from the City of Chocolate’s high-rise inferno are passed down like somber legends within these station walls. Nearly the entire department mobilized, a colossal effort in the face of an unprecedented disaster. Arriving on the scene, the sight that greeted them was beyond comprehension—massive steel fire engines and trucks crumpled like paper, police cars tossed aside as if by a giant’s hand. The devastation was cinematic, yet all too real.

The aftermath was a time of silent mourning and unspoken grief, as many children in the city grew up orphaned, their firefighter parents having rushed into the blaze without a second thought for their own safety. They were driven by a singular purpose: to battle the flames, to rescue those trapped by an insidious incendiary device that had weakened the very bones of the buildings.

For months, the city was shrouded in a ghostly pall, the dust from the collapse so thick it blanketed the streets, obscuring signs and landmarks. The only guidance through this ashen wasteland was the dim glow of rear-facing lights on the surviving fire apparatus.

In the year and a half that followed, from September 5th, 2003, to March 12th, 2005, the City of Chocolate saw an influx of firefighters from neighboring cities and towns. These men and women, strangers to each other, filled the ranks left vacant by the fallen. They brought with them diverse experiences, knowledge of different codes, and varied approaches to urban and rural firefighting. Here in Little Bird, the contrast is stark—city departments operate defensively, while rural areas take a more aggressive stance. Yet, despite these differences, they fought side by side, united by a common cause.

It was a time of learning and adaptation, of understanding that whether we come from bustling cities with multiple companies or quiet towns with just a couple, our mission remains the same—to save lives.

Change is the only constant in our line of work, and the stories of past generations are a testament to that. Each era of firefighters has faced its own set of challenges and adapted to the tools of their times. Now, we’re in an age where technology like drones can mark potential fire hazards, helping us predict and control the spread of flames with precision. It’s a far cry from the days of the Lost Generation and the Silent Generation, who relied on one-way radios and payphones to communicate with dispatch.

Back in the 1950s, the fire service saw the introduction of specialized units to handle emergencies beyond the scope of traditional fire companies. Post-World War II brought a construction boom, with wooden houses giving way to prefabricated steel homes for returning G.I.s, and the rise of malls and skyscrapers presented new firefighting challenges.

Each generation has had its skeptics, wary of new technologies that could potentially fail and put lives at risk.

Empire is a tapestry of neighborhoods, each with its own heartbeat and hazards. From the soaring skyscrapers of Uptown and Downtown to the tranquil suburban lanes of Emerald Pastors and Riverview, the diversity is staggering. The Factory District hums with industry, while Eastside and Westside boast their historic low-rise apartments, their facades a testament to the international style of the mid 20th century. Highwood’s mansions stand as silent sentinels of wealth, and Tallwood tells a grittier tale with its row houses and industrial sites. Anderson’s multi-family dwellings and the sturdy brick buildings of the port district add yet more layers to this urban landscape.

Beneath it all, the veins of the city—miles of subway lines, the sprawling airport on the outskirts, tunnels, bridges, and pipes—form a complex circulatory system that’s both lifeline and vulnerability.

Since the 1990s, the Fire Department City of Empire has risen to the challenge, evolving into an All Hazards Agency. We’re a model for adaptability, a title embraced by other cities across Little Bird in the early 2000s. We’re prepared for anything, from fires to floods, from earthquakes to epidemics.

Yet tonight, the silence is almost eerie. No calls, no sirens—just the quiet anticipation of a city holding its breath. It’s a testament to the gravity of the situation; people are taking the “Rabivus” threat seriously, hunkering down, waiting for the storm to pass. It’s a wise choice, considering the Empire Police Department’s history with demonstrations or enforcing things in the '60s by force—a reminder that sometimes, the best way to stay safe is to stay put.

As a probationary firefighter, I’m here, ready and waiting. The stillness is unnerving, but it’s also a sign of hope. It means that maybe, just maybe, we’re getting through this together, as a city united in caution and care. When the call finally comes, we’ll be there, because that’s what we do—we serve, we protect, and we stand ready to face whatever challenges come our way.

Navigating the unknown waters of this virus, we’re all treading carefully, especially when it comes to medical calls. The symptoms are a mystery, and every ring of the station’s PA system could mean facing a new challenge without a playbook. It’s a stark contrast to the tales I’ve heard about the police force here on Little Bird, reminiscent of the stories my granduncles and cousins shared about the '60s. They spoke with a kind of approval for the way the police handled the anti-war protesters back then—how they dealt with the ‘hippies.’ It’s a mindset that seems worlds away from our current crisis.

I couldn’t help but lighten the mood with a quote from Forrest Gump, “We were all looking for someone named Charlie.” It’s an odd parallel, searching for an unseen enemy, whether it’s in the jungles of Vietnam or the streets of Empire.

The riot control tactics here have their roots in the mid-century, with batons, fire hoses, and tear gas. By the '80s, the police had shifted, adopting military training and repurposing old Ranger armor into riot gear. It’s a history of adaptation, of forces evolving to meet the threats of their time, much like we do in the fire service.

As for the company, I’ve taken on the role of cook, serving up something warm amidst the chaos. It’s a small comfort, but necessary. With the TV gone, there’s no constant barrage of news to stoke the fires of fear. The media has a way of magnifying the darkness, editing out the light to sell a narrative of panic. But we don’t need that here.

We had a quiet dinner but to me the calls that other companies are getting are just welfare checks to check on those who are more vulnerable like the elderly but well according to Dave and Lusty that many times the Fire Department go on welfare checks on the elderly and those who are at risk but if there’s no answer then they can forcefully enter a residence to make sure the person is okay. Of course Dave had noted that sometimes that they get to a house to knock but no answer so they open said door by force if it’s locked and a lot of times the person they’re checking up on is usually out like going shopping or going for a walk around the block to keep their heart rate up. But my girlfriend and cousin they’re both in areas of the city where the members of their stations know the people there by heart and know who they are and if they’re at risk or not.

I just hope we don’t get a major emergency during this even though when we do then the Fire Dispatch will use its distinctive Quick Call system where each station has its own series of tones to indicate it is being called up and a klaxon that sounds to confirm that Station 51 is being deployed. The dispatcher would then, along with destination info, specify the equipment and station to be deployed. If "Station" is called, all units from that station are to be deployed (so a call of "Station 141" means both the engine, the truck, mass cass unit, and airport crash tender roll out); otherwise it's just the apparatus stated ("Engine" for fire engines, “Rescue” for rescue squads. "Squad" for rescue engines, "Truck" for ladder trucks, "Foam" for foam generators, "Deluge" for high-volume monitors, "Copter" for helicopters, "Boat" for fireboats, "Battalion" for battalion chiefs to coordinate larger deployments, and "Division" for Division chiefs for even larger ones)

The quiet hours after dinner, when the station settles into a lull, are often when thoughts run wild. Tonight, insomnia has me in its grip, a restless mind fueled by the unpredictability of the day. In these moments, I turn to the wisdom of the past, thumbing through the pages of a preparedness manual that’s seen revisions from the 1950s to the 1980s, and again in the early 2000s. It’s a comprehensive guide, covering every conceivable disaster, from the wrath of nature to the follies of man.

Natural hazards like floods, earthquakes, and wildfires are just the beginning. The manual delves into the rare but real threats of solar storms and meteorite impacts, painting a picture of a world where anything can happen. Then there are the manmade disasters—bioterrorism, civil unrest, and the ever-looming specter of nuclear accidents. Each manual is a reminder that vigilance is the price of safety.

The Little Bird Bureau of Human Welfare, our equivalent of FEMA and the Civil Defense Administration, alongside the Bureau of Law and the Bureau of Fire Protection, implores us to be ever-prepared. They echo the sentiment that’s been ingrained in us since training. “It’s better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it.” It’s a mantra for readiness, a call to arms against the unknown.

As I sit here, the manual in hand, I can’t help but feel a sense of pride. We’re the guardians of Empire, armed not just with hoses and ladders, but with knowledge and foresight. As the night deepens, I find comfort in the thought that we’re ready for whatever comes our way, because we’ve prepared for the unknown, and we stand united in our resolve to protect and serve.

It’s a bit of a running joke, isn’t it? Those disaster manuals for blizzards and ice storms seem out of place for someone in Empire City, where the climate is anything but frigid. Yet, with the way the world’s weather is changing, who knows? Maybe one day we’ll see snowflakes in the tropics. It’s a wild thought, but in our line of work, we prepare for the wild and the unexpected. That’s the heart of our job—being ready for anything.

Clairebear, that’s a sweet nickname, by the way, and Linda is right about the fire service. It’s a world where experience counts for everything until it doesn’t. Because there’s always that one call, that one emergency that no amount of experience can fully prepare you for. That’s the curveball that keeps us on our toes.

As for us in the Squad Companies and the Rescue Squads, we’re the jack-of-all-trades in the fire service. We’ve got a tool for every scenario, from rope rescues to water rescues, and everything in between. We’re the ones they call when a situation is too complex for a standard Engine or Ladder Company. And the Rescue Engines, like our Squad Companies, are hybrids—part engine, part rescue squad, all business.

The hierarchy of response is like a well-oiled machine:

* Engine Company can’t handle it? Call in the Ladder Company.

* Ladder Company overwhelmed? It’s time for the Squad Company.

* Squad Company needs backup? Bring in the most experienced, the Rescue Company.

* And if the Rescue Company is outmatched… well, that’s when you know it’s serious. But we’re not alone; we’ve got specialized units like HAZMAT and Foam for those unique emergencies.

It’s a layered approach, ensuring that no matter the crisis, we have the resources and the expertise to tackle it head-on.

In the fire service, especially here in Empire, the path to becoming part of a Rescue Company is steeped in tradition and hard-earned experience. It’s not just about being a firefighter; it’s about becoming a master of the craft. They usually do transferring across the floor, from Engine Company to Ladder Company, is a rite of passage for many. It’s a journey of growth, where each call, each blaze, each rescue adds a layer to one’s skill set.

Linda’s perspective sheds light on the rigorous selection process for the Rescue Company. It’s not just an interview; it’s a crucible where every word, every action is scrutinized. They’re looking for the best of the best—firefighters who embody the aggressive, quick-thinking, and decisive nature that the job demands. It’s about proving you have what it takes to uphold the elite status of the Rescue Company.

The training—twice a year, every year—is what keeps these elite teams sharp. It’s a commitment to excellence, to never settling, to always being ready for the next challenge. It’s a testament to the dedication of the firefighters of Empire.

For the second time tonight, I flipped the manual closed. The words “biological hazards” emblazoned on the cover seemed to glow in the dim light of the apparatus bay, where the only illumination was the soft amber of a street light filtering through the window. Lying back down, I stared at the ceiling, my mind racing despite the stillness of my surroundings.

The “Rabivirus” outbreak is chilling, no doubt about it. But as I lay there, my thoughts drifted not to the virus but to the fact that I’ve yet to face an emergency in a high-rise. I’m not exactly eager for it, but as a probationary firefighter, it’s a milestone I expect to encounter. I’m grateful, though, that our city’s skyscrapers are built with fire safety in mind, almost fireproof, you could say.

But for my cousin Dave, his wife Linda, and my girlfriend Lusty, high-rise fires are the stuff of nightmares. They’ve shared stories of past blazes where the fire was a hidden enemy, lurking within walls, elusive and dangerous. Linda, especially, knows the high stakes all too well. When she served on Engine 18 and Ladder 18, they were often the second or third crew on the scene. Our department’s protocol dictates that the first responders should wait for backup if they arrive significantly earlier than the next due company. Where fire greedily climbs upward through a building.

Linda’s brother, Donnie, also a firefighter, was tragically lost to one such fire. A floor collapsed beneath him, and despite the urgency, there was nothing to be done. I remember her recounting Dave’s words, “Get up, Linda. We don’t have any time. We can’t save him.” Those words must have cut deeper than the flames. And after the fire, Linda’s grief and anger clashed with Dave’s own pain, both lashing out, unable to contain their sorrow.

As I lay there, the silence of the sleeping quarters was a stark contrast to the chaos of those memories. It’s a reminder of the risks we face and the bonds that hold us together in the fiercest of fires.

__________________________

Dawn was breaking, casting a pale light over the city as we received the call. A welfare check at 5:40 AM is unusual, but in these times, the unusual has become the norm. We arrived at the apartment, the silence of the early morning broken only by the muffled sound of a TV from within. Lieutenant gave the door a firm knock—no response. Locked, but someone was inside; the flickering light and the low hum of the television told us as much. With no other choice, we breached the door, only to find the tenant on the floor, an ominous, sizzling mark on their face—a stark and unsettling sight. The Lieutenant he wasted no time radioing in a HAZMAT company and a HAZTEC Ambulance

As we stood there, the TV droned on, the newscaster’s voice speaking of “Societal Disruption,” a term that felt too clinical for the chaos it represented. The outbreak’s impact was confined to the city, they said, but its effects were profound, altering the very fabric of our community. Businesses were hemorrhaging money, with no customers to sustain them because no customers, no money being brought in and no breaking even. I knew from snippets caught on Little Bird and the law books I’d perused—my light reading after training—that the economic fallout was complex. Owners of struggling businesses had rights in the face of mergers and takeovers. Even those with minimal equity and voting power couldn’t be dismissed without due process, or the courts would be tied up for years with wrongful termination cases. And every stockholder, no matter how small their share, had a voice that needed to be heard.

I’m no business expert, but these tidbits of knowledge come to mind as I consider the broader implications of our current crisis. Lusty, my girlfriend, is one of those stockholders. She’s invested in public corporations, not for wealth, but for a future—her daughters’ education. It’s a long-term plan, with an old neighbor keeping a watchful eye on the market’s pulse. When the time is right, when her daughters are on the edge of graduation, she’ll sell those stocks at their peak, securing their path to college.

In moments like these, amidst the uncertainty of a welfare check and the backdrop of a city in turmoil, it’s these threads of hope and planning for the future that keep us grounded.

Standing back, we watched the HAZMAT team move in with precision, a well-rehearsed dance of urgency and care. The Hazmat Technician EMT and Paramedic took over, their focus entirely on the person before us. The burn on the victim’s face was a ghastly sight—reminiscent of the way paper curls and blackens at the edges when flame licks its surface. It was a stark reminder of the fragility of life and the brutal reality of our job.

During my training, our instructor laid it out for us in no uncertain terms: we were going to witness things that would test the limits of our endurance, scenes that the average person might never encounter in a lifetime. The advice was straightforward yet paradoxical—talk about it, but also keep it under wraps. It’s a delicate balance, managing the weight of what we see without letting it consume us.

The instructor emphasized the gravity of what lay ahead. Tragedy would be a constant companion, and those who joined the force merely for the paycheck were better off stepping aside. The job demands more than what money can compensate for. Our monthly pay of $240, or $120 biweekly, might seem meager, especially when compared to the standards back in the States. Here, that amount teeters on the edge between middle-class comfort and poverty. Yet, it’s not the paycheck that drives us—it’s something deeper, more intrinsic.

For many of us, like my cousin Dave, firefighting is a tradition. It’s in our blood, passed down through generations. Dave’s lineage is steeped in the tradition of firefighting—his father, uncle, and grandfather before him all answered the same call. Linda, his wife, carries a two-century-old torch of service, despite the irony that her native ancestors once revered fire for its life-giving warmth, light and cooking. Since 1710, her family has been on the front lines, battling the very element that once was central to their survival.

In the midst of this outbreak, the department’s decision to mobilize those of us without immediate family responsibilities is both a practical and compassionate one. It allows those with families—the parents, the soon-to-be parents—to remain safely at home, to be present for the small moments that, once gone, can never be recaptured. Holidays, birthdays, or just the everyday magic that happens in the warmth of family life.

For those of us standing in the gap, it’s a solemn duty. We work so that others can hold their loved ones close, knowing that in these trying times, every second with family is precious. It’s a sacrifice, but one we make willingly, because we understand the value of what we’re protecting.

Keeping a clear mind is essential. It’s not just about staying focused on the job; it’s about maintaining our own sense of peace amidst the turmoil. We find clarity in the purpose of our work, in the knowledge that what we do matters—not just for the lives we save, but for the families we help keep whole. It’s a heavy burden, but one we carry with pride, because we are more than firefighters.

Our next call was a welfare check at a tenement building. When we arrived, there was no answer, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. The resident had a special phone that blocks incoming calls while he’s on the line. Turns out, he was deep in conversation with a distant relative, oblivious to the repeated attempts from 695 (Fire Department), 935 (Police Department), 549 (Medical), and 693 (the Little Bird version of 911).

After a few persistent knocks, he came to the door, a little bewildered but otherwise fine. He even let us check his blood pressure and heart rate—all normal. With the situation under control, the Lieutenant radioed dispatch to slow the ambulance’s approach with a “10-20,” signaling them to proceed at reduced speed. Once we were certain the man was in good health, we updated dispatch with a “Code 4,” freeing the ambulance and us for other emergencies.

It was a relief, a simple misunderstanding rather than a crisis.

Lusty always had a way of seeing the heart in people, even in the stubborn old souls of Eastside. She’d tell me stories that sounded like they were plucked from the pages of a storybook—neighbors who’d watch your place like hawks when you’re away, collect your mail, and make sure everything’s just as you left it. It’s the kind of community where trust is a given, where doors and windows don’t need locks at night.

Then there’s the Eastside gang, a far cry from the menacing figures painted by the media. Since '73, they’ve been the unofficial guardians of the streets, more concerned with brooms than bullets, sweeping away trouble and keeping the peace. It’s a unique brand of vigilance, one that’s woven into the fabric of the neighborhood.

But that same stubborn streak that keeps the community tight-knit can also be a head-shaker. Like the time Lusty saw a car wreck, the driver’s arm mangled in ways that defied nature. Yet, he waved off the ambulance, adamant about not going to the hospital—until he learned his car was totaled so he went by ambulance. It’s a peculiar brand of resilience, one that says, “I might bend, but I won’t break—not until it’s absolutely necessary.” That’s Eastside for you, resilient to the core, a place where even the toughest moments are met with an unyielding spirit.

In Eastside, the voters are anything but passive. They’re the kind that hold their elected officials accountable, the kind that remember every broken promise and every hollow laugh. They understand the power of their vote, the weight it carries. They know that it’s the politicians who need them, not the other way around. When those in office forget who put them there, when they seek re-election with a trail of unkept promises behind them, the people of Eastside make their voices heard loud and clear at the polls, often leaving the forgetful incumbent without a single vote to cling to.

Lusty told me that the memory of Eastside residents is long and unforgiving. They’re quick to remind others of their failures, and if necessary, they’re not above enforcing a sort of exile—a banishment from the district for those who betray their trust. Yet, despite this stern approach to politics, they’re a community that values gratitude, especially towards those who serve them.

The people of Eastside have a deep appreciation for the fire department, for the sacrifices made by the men and women of firehouse 47. They understand the cost of saving lives, that sometimes a window must be broken, a door must be forced open. To them, material things can always be replaced, but a human life is irreplaceable. “You can replace a window, not a human life,” they say. It’s a sentiment that resonates deeply with me.

The drive back to the firehouse was a quiet one, the engine’s hum a soft backdrop to my thoughts. The streets, usually bustling with life, were now eerily silent, segmented by those metal fences that spring up during times of civil unrest. Now, they served a different purpose, marking the boundaries of containment zones in response to the outbreak.

It’s a strategy set forth by the Bureau of Fire, Bureau of Law, and Bureau of Human Welfare—barricades to stem the tide of infection. Each blockaded street, each patrol car stationed like a sentinel at either end, is a reminder of the city’s efforts to protect its citizens.

I can’t help but think that these barriers could serve a vital role around our hospitals and clinics. During an outbreak, these places become beacons for the sick, and without proper precautions, they could just as easily become hotspots for the virus to spread. Keeping healthy at a safe distance isn’t just practical; it’s essential.

As our fire engine made its way through the streets of Eastside, I couldn’t help but gaze out at the skyline. The modern apartment buildings, some gleaming in their completed glory, others paused mid-construction, stood as silent witnesses to the city’s aspirations and its halted progress. Eastside, with its melting pot of cultures—German, Austrian, Italian, Irish, Norwegian, English, African, Polish, Jewish, and Swiss—holds fast to the trinity of God, Family, and Work. These values are the bedrock of the community, shaping every aspect of life here.

Lusty remembers Mayor Martinez, who led the city from 1990 to 1998. She envisioned a transformation for her old neighborhood and the entire city—a metamorphosis from a “wretched hive” to a gleaming utopia of glass and steel. Her intentions were clear: uplift the working class, challenge the affluent. Yet, she never made explicit promises; her vision was her pledge.

Her efforts faced resistance from city hall, where classism against the working class was, and perhaps still is, entrenched. But it was her successor, two mayors later, who co-opted her vision without acknowledgement. That is until the people of Eastside, ever vigilant and unforgiving, held him accountable. They demanded recognition for Martinez, ensuring that her contributions were not erased. Lusty likened Mayor Graham to those students who claim credit for group work they never did—a fitting analogy for a politician who tried to build his legacy on the foundations laid by another.

Reflecting on the legacy of Mayor Martinez, I can’t help but feel a sense of nostalgia for her time in office. After serving two terms, she chose a quieter life, yet her impact on the City of Empire remains undeniable. It was under her leadership in 1991 that a pivotal change took place—a merger that would redefine emergency medical services within our city.

Before then, municipal ambulances were under the purview of the city hospitals, operating independently alongside hospital-based ambulances. But on January 1st, 1991, a bold move was made. The Fire Department City of Empire and the city hospitals were unified, a decision that would streamline and enhance the delivery of emergency medical care. This integration meant that some municipal ambulances were reassigned to firehouses throughout the city, significantly expanding the capabilities of the Bureau of EMS within the Fire Department.

This strategic move not only improved response times but also fostered a deeper connection between firefighters and the communities they serve. It’s a testament to Mayor Martinez’s vision for a city where public services are not just efficient but also compassionate and closely knit with the people they protect.

Of course her reason why having that merger happen in the first place was because of looking at where response times for ambulances were greater than the city required response time of 7:00 minutes where sometimes ambulances would’ve showed up 20 minutes up to an hour later but Ms. Martinez said in her city address when she started the merger she said on city television “Have any of you seen a accident? Or have any of you had a heart attack recently? Seventy percent of all cardiac cases never live long enough to reach a hospital or clinic. How do you think your mother or your wife or relative or family member would make out under those conditions? Well those are the conditions we're talking about. If a bomb or some kind of disaster hit this room right now there won’t be a doctor available for an unknown amount of time. Oh sure rescue units from the Fire Department would show up but the best they can do is give you elementary first aid akin to a mother giving to her child with a broken nose.

The average response time for a city owned ambulance is 7 minutes or greater while the fire department response time is 5:00 minutes or less. Yeah the firefighters in the city are medically trained but they only can give pre-hospital care and those extra two minutes can mean the difference between life and death. Yeah the Fire Department can radio in to the nearest hospital to mobilize their mobile response team to head here but that’s another 2-7 minutes before they arrive. I’m proposing this merger to combine the hospitals and the fire department to station some ambulances in some fire houses across the city to cut down the response time!”

But according to my girlfriend Lusty, the reason why the merger had a ton of public support was because the Mayor got into people’s minds to get them thinking of what if scenarios like a family member having a heart attack or a cardiac arrest where someone can take that person to the firehouse. But the only thing the fire department could do is radio an ambulance because before then firefighters were only trained to be Certified First Responders so medical emergencies like heart attacks and cardiac arrests were outside of their scope and the best thing they could do was radio an ambulance, take the patient to the hospital in their own apparatus or have a hospital on the line to give them instructions until an ambulance arrived but now at least two members of the fire department are Firefighter/Paramedic, ten members are Firefighter/Emergency Medical Technicians with another two being Firefighter/ Certified First Responder.

She pointed out the discrepancy between the 7-minute or longer response time for city ambulances and the 5-minute or less response time for the fire department. Those crucial two minutes could be the difference between life and death. Her proposal was clear: merge the hospitals and the fire department to station ambulances in firehouses across the city, thereby reducing response times and saving lives.

Lusty’s perspective sheds light on why the merger garnered such overwhelming public support. The mayor didn’t just propose a solution; she made it personal. She got people to think about their loved ones in emergency situations, where previously, firefighters, limited to Certified First Responder skills, could only radio for an ambulance or provide basic care. Now, thanks to the merger, the fire department boasts at least two Firefighter/Paramedics, ten Firefighter/Emergency Medical Technicians, and another two Firefighter/Certified First Responders per shift—a significant enhancement to the pre-hospital care they can provide.

As a Probationary Firefighter/Certified First Responder, I’m often reminded of my current limitations. My certification allows me to perform CPR, clean and disinfect minor wounds, treat minor burns, apply bandages, and use non-prescription medicines. I can also drain blisters and assist someone who’s choking. But when it comes to more severe medical emergencies, like heart attacks or cardiac arrests, I have to step aside and let my more experienced colleagues take the lead.

It’s a humbling position, standing on the sidelines during medical runs, knowing that my scope of practice doesn’t cover the complexities of this virus outbreak or other life-threatening conditions. Yet, I understand the importance of my role and the responsibilities that come with it. Every action I am certified to perform is a vital part of the emergency response chain, and each skill I possess contributes to the safety and well-being of those we serve.

In the Fire Department City of Empire, the journey to becoming a first responder is both rigorous and rewarding. Every trainee is required to achieve Certified First Responder (CFR) status, which includes a comprehensive two-month class at a hospital, scheduled around the demands of firefighter training. This foundational certification is just the beginning.

For those like my girlfriend Clairebear and cousin David, the pursuit of excellence doesn’t stop there. They’ve taken their commitment a step further by completing additional courses to become Emergency Medical Technicians (EMTs). Linda, Dave’s wife, exemplifies this dedication even more. After her CFR training, she not only completed the EMT course but also pursued the Paramedic course, driven by a passion for service and an insatiable thirst for knowledge.

The hierarchy of medical certifications within our department is clear:

* Certified First Responder (CFR)

* Emergency Medical Responder (EMR), which serves as an intermediate level between CFR and EMT

* Emergency Medical Technician (EMT)

* Advanced Emergency Medical Technician (AEMT)

* Emergency Medical Technician Intermediate (EMT-I), bridging AEMT and Paramedic

Beyond the Paramedic level, care transitions to the hospital setting, where different qualifications come into play. EMRs and EMT-Is are in a unique position, acquiring skills that prepare them for the next level. They can provide advanced medical aid, but only within the scope of their training and competencies.

“Ambulance Engines sure are on the move,” I said, stating the obvious for this outbreak.

The Lieutenant nodded in agreement. “Absolutely. Whether it’s the standard Engine Companies, Truck Companies, Ambulance Engines, Ambulance Trucks, Medical Houses, or any other fire company units, they’re all running non-stop with medical calls.”

In the Fire Department City of Empire, terms like “Ambulance Engine,” “Ambulance Ladder,” and “Medical House” are more than just labels; they signify a shift in focus. These are the fire units that respond to a higher volume of medical emergencies than fires.