As I strolled through the park, enjoying the serenity, Cadenza was by my side, acting as my "security." Honestly, any help is appreciated, especially when it comes to taking down a corrupt Alderman. If anyone wants to join the fight, the door is wide open.

"Van, sliding door on the side, driver and passenger door with a double back door," Cadenza noted, her voice steady. "Two people inside. Color is white. It’s at our 7 o'clock position."

I was about to comment, but Cadenza is one of those people who knows how to check if we're being tailed. She takes alternate routes, stops to tie her shoe, checks her watch, or takes a sip from a water bottle—anything to blend in and not tip off our followers that we're onto them.

Cadenza suddenly stopped me and handed over a pistol. I glanced at it, recognizing it as a pocket pistol. Just as I was about to speak, she launched into a quick rundown of what a pocket pistol is, even though I was already familiar with it. It was a .32 ACP caliber, self-loading, semi-automatic pistol.

With the pistol in hand, I left the park, trusting Cadenza to handle our tail. She’s got a knack for these situations, and I knew she’d take care of it.

_______________

After taking a series of alleyways and the long route to ensure I wasn't being followed, I finally made it back to my apartment. As I approached, I noticed my stepmother, Martha, lingering in the hallway. The last time she barged into my place without permission, I had to threaten legal action to keep her at bay.

"What do you want, Martha?" I asked, trying to keep my cool.

She launched into a speech about setting up rules and boundaries for me. I nearly did a spit take. Martha is only three years older than me—I'm twenty-seven, and she's thirty. Sure, she's technically my stepmother, but she has no authority to impose rules on me. I'm an adult, not a child.

She started listing her "house rules": no going outside past 9 PM on weekdays (10 PM on weekends), finding a "suitable" partner (as if my girlfriend, Lusty, isn't good enough), and monitoring all my phone calls to track my monthly usage.

I was about to tell her she'd lost her marbles. I reminded her that she could go back to the U.S. and impose these rules on her teenage sons. Here in Little Bird, all landline calls are already monitored and billed per minute—25 cents for short distance and 75 cents for long distance.

When I told her she was out of her mind, she threatened to tell my dad. I told her to go ahead. My dad would take my side because I'm an adult, not living under her roof.

Martha seemed more shocked by the fact that my landline phone was already being monitored than by my comment about her losing her rocker. I had to give her the lowdown on how the phone company operates.

I explained that there are three main departments in the phone company: the "Traffic" Department, which connects calls to other houses or businesses; the "Billing" Department, which tracks the minutes and distance of each call to accurately bill customers; and the "Information" Department, which helps people find phone numbers if they only have an address.

If my dad were here, he'd totally get what I was talking about. Born in 1966, he often shared stories about how he or his mom would call information to get a number when they only had an address. He also loved reminiscing about the "party lines" he and his friends used to have back in the late '70s and early '80s. Those were the days when a single phone line could be shared by multiple households, leading to some interesting conversations!

I let Martha continue her rant about setting house rules for my apartment, even though I already have my own rules. I'm pretty relaxed about them since I live alone. I had told my girlfriend, Lusty, that I wanted my own place because I'm not the type to live with a significant other and risk growing bored of each other.

When I was going through the Fire Department City of Empire fire academy, I stayed with Lusty. But after graduating, I got my own place. I believe that living separately helps maintain our relationship. Even if Lusty and I tie the knot, we plan to live apart and go on dates every other week when our schedules align.

Martha kept rambling, even suggesting I need a man in my life to give me children. Honestly, I'd rather be back in middle or high school math and science classes. Those classes always felt like they dragged on forever, especially since math was my first class in middle school and science was my last. In high school, it was reversed, with science first and math last. Time seemed to crawl in those classes, unlike my other subjects where it flew by.

After all that, Martha hit me with an unbelievable request; she wanted me to help my stepbrothers submit their applications to Arcane University. I tried to explain that Arcane University isn't some party school or high school where anyone can get in. It's a place that values intellect and hard work. They don't hand out freebies—you have to earn everything.

I told her that at Arcane, students have to pay for their meals, school supplies, and even campus housing if they don't want to live in a dorm. They need to get jobs to cover these expenses.

When Martha started raising her voice, I stood my ground. I explained that Arcane University prepares students for the real world, where "Mommy and Daddy won't always be there to help." The professors there are tough; if you ask to borrow a pencil or use the sharpener in the middle of class, they'll tell you how unprepared you are. They expect you to be self-sufficient and ready for anything.

I could see she was taken aback, but I had to make her understand that Arcane University is a place where you have to prove yourself every step of the way.

Martha insisted that I should be the “big sister” of the family, but I barely know her two sons, my stepbrothers. I’ve only met them a couple of times, so they still feel like strangers to me.

She claimed that the costs weren’t too high, so I grabbed a notepad and broke it down for her:

* Application Fee: $50 per student

* School Supplies: $180 (textbooks, notebooks, and other essentials)

* Laptops: $250 per laptop (for certain classes)

* Tuition: $5,500 per year (fees may vary depending on the courses)

* On-Campus Housing: $150 per month

I explained that the minimum wage in Little Bird is $45 per week, or half that for part-time workers. Many students struggle to balance work and school because Arcane University classes run from 8 AM to 5 PM. Part-time jobs only offer 3-4 hours of work per day, earning about $4.50 to $6 daily. By the time they get back to their dorms, they’re exhausted and still have to study.

I also mentioned that stores in Little Bird close around 8:30-9 PM, making it even harder for students to manage their time. Sundays are universally off due to Blue Laws, which restrict most businesses from operating for religious reasons. These laws allow some exceptions, like mechanics, manufacturers, and bakers, but generally, students use Sundays to unwind and destress.

Despite my detailed explanation, Martha seemed more focused on getting her sons into Arcane University. I told her she’d need to get their passports for travel from the U.S. to Little Bird. When she suggested I could get them Little Birden passports, I had to explain that it would be a felony. Instead, she should go to the Little Bird embassy in the U.S. to get education and work visas for her sons if they get accepted into Arcane University.

When Martha asked why getting my stepbrothers Little Birden passports would be a felony, I had to break it down for her. What she was suggesting fell under forgery, forgery of government documents, and obtaining passports for non-citizens. She seemed confused, especially since I live in Little Bird but don't have a Little Birden passport. I explained that I have dual citizenship—I'm an American by birth and moved to Little Bird after my tour of duty with the U.S. Navy. I don't need a Little Birden passport because my American one suffices. Her suggestion to get her son's Little Birden passports was illegal.

Martha still didn't seem to grasp the seriousness of it, so I told her she was welcome to try getting forged passports if she wanted her sons to end up in prison for using falsified documents.

When she claimed I didn't even know what a Little Birden passport looked like, I described it to her. A blue passport with a silver or gold emblem on the front and a dark orange binding. I explained that passports are essential identification documents, carrying information like name, sex, date of birth, and nationality. The cover colors vary depending on the country of issue.

I hoped this would finally make her understand the gravity of what she was asking.

When Martha claimed that nothing serious happens to those with fake passports, I had to set her straight. I reminded her that four years ago, a Little Bird citizen was caught with a fake passport during wartime and was executed as a spy. That seemed to give her pause.

Then she shifted gears, insisting I needed to be with a man to have children. Martha is only sixteen years younger than my mom, and both of them want me to break up with my girlfriend, Lusty, to be with a man. They see my relationship as an insult because I'm dating someone of the same gender. To them, I'm still a bachelorette. They want to marry off and have kids, so they can be grandmothers.

But I have my boundaries. I'm not the type to walk on eggshells to please them. I don't care what others think. If I want children, I'll decide when I'm ready. Right now, I'm not. Lusty and I have a strong relationship, and I'm not about to let anyone dictate how I live my life.

Martha just wouldn't stop talking, no matter how many times I told her to. She's one of those people who never shuts up, even when asked politely or rudely. I did my best to tune her out, but when I got to my bedroom, I was planning to do some laundry. I opened the dirty clothes basket and found it empty.

I asked Martha if she had gotten rid of my clothes. She casually admitted she had, saying I needed to wear more feminine clothes. I was livid. Martha is the kind of stepmother who demands respect but never gives it. She never stops to ask what it would take to make me like her; instead, she does the opposite. I swear, Martha and my mother should be friends—they both think I'm a doll, not a person with autonomy.

I was about to run down the hall and confront her, but I knew I'd end up saying things I'd regret later. Sometimes, it's better to take a deep breath and think before reacting, even when dealing with someone as infuriating as Martha.

When Martha started lecturing me about not being confused, I had to draw the line. I respect people’s beliefs and ideologies, but I don’t appreciate them being shoved down my throat. My mother and stepmother have outdated views on what women should be like, views that might have flown before the 1960s. I choose to wear men’s clothing because it’s what I’m comfortable in. Sure, I wear dresses and skirts for special occasions, but my everyday outfit is jeans, socks, slip-on shoes or athletic shoes, a white t-shirt, an overshirt that’s buttoned up and tucked in, and a black leather belt.

Martha went on about how my dad was too soft on me as a child and teenager, letting me wear whatever I wanted because he wasn’t around much and my mom wasn’t in the picture. I told her not to even go there.

I then stuck my hand out and demanded $150 from her. I explained that instead of buying individual pieces of clothing, I buy full outfits because it’s a bargain. Many clothing stores in Little Bird sell outfits as a set, including shoes, pants, and shirts.

She refused, so I dragged her to the nearest clothing store to show her the prices:

* Dresses/Shirt: $25.00

* Leather Jacket: $41.25

* Casual Suit and Raincoat: $82.00

* Casual Suit: $67.25

Martha argued that just saying “shirt” was misleading because it included pants, shoes, and even belts. She insisted I get dresses, even though a dress and heels cost the same as a shirt and pants—$25.

I stood my ground, making it clear that I wear what I’m comfortable in, and no amount of nagging would change that.

I ended up getting eight shirt outfits, mostly in red and blue. I considered white, but since it symbolizes purity and innocence, I stuck with my usual colors. It's kind of ironic that I chose red, given that it's often used to depict fire, and I'm a firefighter. But honestly, I don't mind.

I also picked up a casual suit and raincoat, even though I didn't really need them. In total, I spent $150 on the shirts and another $82 on the suit and raincoat. It was worth it to have clothes that make me feel comfortable and confident.

Martha then asked if she could go clothes shopping, and I agreed. I took her to a fancier clothing store, knowing her preference for designer clothes over thrift store finds or everyday wear. As soon as she saw the prices, her eyes widened:

* Dresses/Shirt: $35.00

* Leather Jacket: $50.25

* Tailored Suit: $115.00

* Tailored Suit and Overcoat: $145.00

She was about to comment on the prices, but I reminded her that this was a designer store. Naturally, it’s going to be pricier than a regular clothing store. If she wanted high-end fashion, she had to be prepared for the cost.

As Martha continued browsing the clothes, she brought up the idea of me paying for her sons' college tuition. I firmly told her no and asked her to respect my decision. I'm not financially responsible for Jake and Alex, and she needs to stop asking me for money to send them to Arcane University.

Then she switched topics, suggesting I should break up with my girlfriend, date a man, have children, and quit my job to become a housewife. Martha is incredibly insensitive and wants me to be someone I'm not. She demands respect from her stepkids but goes about it all wrong. Her views on women are severely outdated, stuck in the 1950s, even though it's 2010. Both she and my biological mother hold these old-fashioned beliefs.

I respect their right to their beliefs, but I'm not here to change their minds. I live my life on my terms, and I'm not about to let anyone dictate how I should live, love, or work. If they can't accept that, it's their problem, not mine.

I know exactly the kind of woman Martha is. It's not just her outdated views; she's the type who would blow off important events for trivial reasons. She'd skip her sons' events to watch a rerun of "The Golden Girls." Don't get me wrong, I loved that show when I was younger, but Martha takes it to another level. She'd ignore significant moments, like engagement parties, for things that can't be recreated. Sure, people can have another engagement party if they get divorced and find new partners, but that first engagement party is unique and irreplaceable.

Martha's priorities are all over the place, and it's frustrating. She doesn't seem to understand the value of these once-in-a-lifetime moments. It's just another reason why I can't take her seriously when she tries to impose her outdated beliefs on me.

Martha's insistence on me paying for Jake and Alex's future education at Arcane University is just another example of her overstepping. I don't have any responsibility for their housing, fees, or tuition. If they do come to the city of Empire for school, I can give them a map and recommend some great diners and places to eat. But actually giving them money? No way. They're not my kids, and I'm not their guardian, so I have no financial responsibility for them.

Honestly, I don't even have any obligation to help them. Yes, they're my stepbrothers, but the only one I really like is Jake. He's responsible and has a bright future ahead of him. Alex, on the other hand, seems destined to be a couch surfer and couch potato, likely still living with Martha and my dad, who is their stepdad.

I have a feeling Martha will keep pushing me to fund their college tuition, but I'm going to stand my ground and refuse. It's not my responsibility, and I'm not about to let her guilt-trip me into it.

I have a sneaking suspicion that Martha might try to set me up on a date with one of her family members. I've seen this play out with other family members whose parents remarried. Their stepparents often tried to set them up with someone from their side of the family, and those dates usually turned out to be with people who should probably have a rap sheet.

Us Watersons don't appreciate our parents or stepparents playing matchmaker for us. We prefer to find love on our own terms. Some of my relatives have had their parents set them up on dates or blind dates with people they didn't know, based on their parents' tastes rather than their own. It's frustrating because it feels like our preferences don't matter.

I've heard horror stories from my family about parents and stepparents trying to marry them off to step-siblings or step-cousins. They'd talk about weddings and future plans before the stepchild could even voice their objections. When they did, their wishes were often ignored. Some even went as far as setting up hidden cameras to catch inappropriate behavior, only for the parents to be more upset about the cameras than the behavior itself.

It's a mess, and I'm not about to let Martha drag me into it. If she tries to set me up, I'll make it clear that I'm not interested. I have my own life and my own relationship, and I'm not about to let anyone dictate how I should live it.

As I waited for Martha to finish her shopping, I got a notification on my phone. It was from an anonymous account, but I knew it was my mother. She had tagged me in a photo she posted on social media of me in my fire department formal suit.

She went on a rant about how my generation, Millennials, is weak. The nerve of her! But my family members jumped to my defense in the comments, pointing out that times have changed. Many of them grew up when my mother and stepmother's views were the norm, but we're in the 21st century now, not the 20th. Their outdated beliefs are becoming relics of the past.

Some of my mom's own family members even made jokes. One said, "Does this mean we have to go back to trading livestock as currency instead of using paper money?"

Another cousin chimed in with, "Do the militaries around the world have to go back to chain mail armor and only armed with swords and bows, shouting 'Retake the Holy Lands' on the way to a combat zone?"

I couldn't help but chuckle at their comments. It was nice to see my family standing up for me and poking fun at the absurdity of my mother's outdated views.

My mother's side of the family doesn't just hate me for being alive or for my accomplishments; they hate me because I'm the daughter of a woman who manipulates and gaslights others. If manipulating and gaslighting were Olympic sports, my mother would win gold medals.

They can't stand that someone like my mother could have a child like me. They hate my accomplishments and the fact that I didn't turn out like her. Even if I had become like her, she would have hated me anyway. They don't hate me for who I am; they hate me because my mother never took the time to care for me.

Some of my female relatives on both sides of the family left nasty comments for my mother. They said things like, "This isn't the 1800s; women have a lot more choices now," and "What's wrong with a woman being independent and making her own money?" Another comment was, "If you want to be a housewife, you can always remarry and rely on your husband's income."

Some family members, both Watersons and from my mother's side, speculated about my bisexuality. They said it's my business, not anyone else's. They pointed out that mothers like mine are why many kids are scared to talk to their parents or run away from home because of how dismissive they are.

I can only imagine my mother's reaction to those comments. She's always made it clear that she's not proud of me because I'm not a housewife or a master manipulator like her. She hates that I'm "more of a Waterson than her," and she's right. My dad, a Waterson, raised me, especially when he was deployed for Operation Just Cause and the Gulf War. He left me with other Watersons, keeping me away from my mother. So yes, I was raised with the Waterson way of life—strong, independent, and ready to fight when necessary.

One of my friends even left a comment saying, "At least her dad is proud of her achievements and her hard work. Even when she fell off her bike or out of a tree, she got back up, and her dad was proud of her for that. He’s proud because she didn’t take advantage of anyone. Even if she had followed in your footsteps, you still would’ve hated her for it!"

It's true. My dad has always been proud of me for who I am and what I've accomplished. I didn't take the easy route or manipulate others to get ahead. I worked hard and earned everything I have. That's something my mother will never understand or appreciate. But that's okay. I know who I am, and I know my worth.

I know my mother well enough to understand her manipulative ways. Before she and my dad got together in the early '80s (I was born in May '84, so it must have been between 1980 and 1983), I've heard stories about her. One particularly telling story is how she tried to "convince" her cousin to let her walk down the aisle at her cousin's wedding. By "convince," I mean manipulate. Her cousin, of course, told her to hit the road because weddings are significant events, and her cousin was determined to walk down the aisle herself, with her dad giving her away.

My mom, legend has it, has no idea why fathers give away their daughters at weddings. So, I

It's funny how my mom's manipulative nature has always been a part of her, even before I decided to leave a comment explaining it. I mentioned that traditionally, it represents a transfer of ownership from the father to the new husband. But in the Waterson family, we see it as the father trusting the husband to be there and protect his daughter. It's even funnier how she still doesn't get some of the basic traditions that most people understand. But that's just her, I guess.

I know my mother and how my parents didn’t have a traditional wedding in a traditional sense.

I remember all the times my mother humiliated me, so I decided to return the favor. I posted another comment highlighting her incompetence, like how she can't even crack an egg without making a mess or how operating a pressure cooker is like quantum physics to her. I also mentioned how she never cared about my education or anything important, the kind of neglect that kids throw back in their parents' faces when they come seeking help.

As I was typing, I wondered if I was going overboard. But then I remembered how, even when my dad couldn't make it to events, he always made an effort to make up for it. My mother, on the other hand, never cared. She once wished me a happy 6th birthday on Christmas Eve in 1995 when I was actually eleven. She was almost six years off!

It felt good to finally call her out, even if it was just in the comments section. Sometimes, you have to stand up for yourself, especially when dealing with someone who has never shown you the respect or care you deserve.

I even wanted to blast her with her outdated views but she did that herself. Some of my female relatives either Waterson or from my mom's side of the family called her out on how stupid she is.

It's incredibly frustrating how one-sided my mother is. She throws her misogynistic views at me, but when it comes to other independent women in the family, she's perfectly fine with their choices. It's like she has a personal vendetta against me for not fitting into her outdated mold.

When 98% of the women in my family commented about having careers and no families, my mother responded by saying it's "not the same" because they're not in any stage of motherhood and don't have a boyfriend or husband. She claimed to be happy for their independence, but it's clear she holds me to a different standard.

Even my nieces and cousins called her out on it. They pointed out how messed up it is that she doesn't criticize them for their career choices and lack of relationships, but she constantly hounds me. It's a classic case of double standards, and it's exhausting.

I just have to keep reminding myself that her views are outdated and don't define me. I'm proud of who I am and the life I've built, and no amount of criticism from her will change that.

One of my cousins, who’s a lawyer, commented that what my mother was doing could be considered defamation against a legal person. I’m not an expert in legal matters, but it’s interesting to think about.

It’s funny how my mother hates my choices but doesn’t care about the rest of the family. If I owned a house with two or three bedrooms, I could totally see her getting remarried and pregnant just to take over my space, pulling the “You’re single and I have a husband and kids, so I need all this space” card. Of course, I’d let my girlfriend and her kids come over to fill up that space instead.

I know some people in my family who have dealt with narcissistic parents. They’ve had their golden child siblings move in and try to take over their house, expecting them to move into a camper or somewhere else but still pay the rent or mortgage. It’s ridiculous.

At least here in Little Bird, if someone tried that, they’d have to deal with the cops and the legal system. According to Mitchell, that’s considered breaking and entering and occupying someone else’s dwelling without permission, which are both crimes. My half-cousin Cadenza’s boyfriend’s adoptive family has dealt with that a few times before the cops told them to hit the road or face arrest.

After Martha finished her shopping, we headed back to my apartment. She started talking about how generous and understanding the Watersons are. I was curious about what she meant, but she went on to explain how she had been invited to several Waterson weddings. She mentioned how meticulously we plan these events, booking venues months in advance and making sure everything is arranged perfectly.

I simply said, "That's how business works."

Martha looked puzzled. "What is that supposed to mean?"

I explained, "Wedding venues can't just call someone and tell them their wedding is being moved to another date, especially at the last minute. It looks unprofessional to cancel someone's special day because of family. People who plan weddings should do so months ahead, not at the last minute, which is more expensive. Many in my family start planning their weddings at least a year in advance to ensure everything is set. I've never heard of a female Waterson planning a wedding with just a week or month to go. Venues can't move or cancel weddings because they've already been paid in advance, and pulling favors looks unprofessional and makes people second-guess doing business with them."

I wasn't sad about missing a few family weddings. The Watersons always send heartfelt messages if we can't attend, letting everyone know we're there in spirit. Some of my male relatives were almost married to bridezillas who wanted extravagant weddings. But those who married female Watersons found that they preferred simple, affordable weddings. They didn't go all out or double the expenses, keeping things straightforward and meaningful.

I told Martha about my female relatives who managed to convince their soon-to-be husbands and in-laws to scale back on extravagant wedding plans. Some of these in-laws wanted weddings straight out of a reality show, with no regard for budget. They took "go all out" to an extreme, planning events that even billionaires would find out of their price range.

Us Watersons, on the other hand, set a budget and stick to it. We prioritize what's important and cut out unnecessary expenses. For example, instead of hiring a band, we might just use a music player. Some of my male relatives have married women who wanted to push the budget to the extreme, even wanting to rent a band. To me, that would cost more than catering, flowers, and a photographer combined.

When Martha asked how the female Watersons manage to get their fiancés and future in-laws to scale back, I explained that we embody the saying "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." Many of our future in-laws might suggest getting a new wedding dress instead of using one made during the Interwar period. But those female Watersons stand their ground, explaining that the dress, even if made in 1919, holds sentimental value.

When Martha asked why the wedding dress held sentimental value, I explained that my great-granddad and his first wife got married in 1919, right after World War I. They had both endured immense loss and hardship. My great-granddad was one of the British soldiers who suffered from trench foot but managed to get it treated, unlike many others. He lost all but one of his seven brothers in the war, and his wife lost most of her family when Germany bombed England with Zeppelins. She was essentially an orphan by the end of the war. They were both just eighteen when they got married and emigrated to the United States that same year. The dress symbolizes their resilience and love in the face of such adversity.

I then shifted the conversation to how dismissive some family members can be. I told Martha about my cousin Evelyn, who is afraid of the dark and claustrophobic. Her sister-in-law's son locked her in a closet that locks from the outside. When she called her husband and in-laws for help, they dismissed her as overreacting. She had to call her brother, who broke in to rescue her. While technically breaking and entering, it was for a good cause. When she tried to explain what happened, her husband and in-laws brushed it off as "kids will be kids."

Martha commented on how well my family knows the Bible. She sarcastically asked if the Bible says to get revenge on family members. I clarified, "No, it's Exodus 21:23-25: 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.'"

Martha replied, "Two wrongs don't make a right."

“I know the parts I can use,” I said.

I continued telling Martha about Evelyn's ordeal. She was locked in that closet for seven hours, and her anxiety skyrocketed. Despite knowing her phobia of the dark, her in-laws and husband dismissed her distress, saying she was overreacting. Evelyn eventually got the cops involved, but her family still didn't take her seriously.

Evelyn's brother, along with a few other Watersons, decided to give her in-laws and husband a taste of their own medicine. They pulled the same "prank" on them. When Martha asked if that was petty, I replied, "If someone locked me in a closet, I'd retaliate the same way. Unless you're one of those people who think it's justified to use something extreme like White Phosphorus to get even?"

That shut Martha up. For us Watersons, "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth" means people should be punished in a way that mirrors the crime they committed.

When Evelyn's in-laws and husband called her for help, she ignored them just as they had ignored her. When they accused her of not helping, she simply said, "Oh, you're all blowing it out of proportion." She gave them a taste of their own medicine, and it was a lesson they needed to learn.

______________

Back at my apartment, Martha was on a warpath about how she couldn't wait to be a step-grandmother to my kids. I didn't even bother to tell her I'm not interested in having children. Instead, I let her ramble while I put my new clothes away.

I made it clear to Martha that these clothes are mine because I spent my hard-earned money on them.

Then she had the nerve to say firefighting is easy. I was ready to lose it. Firefighting is so much more than just "putting water on fire." A firehose is heavy, especially when filled with water, and if the fire is on a higher floor, you have to lug that hose up countless stairs with 75-100 pounds of gear. It's exhausting and dangerous.

I wanted to explain to her that you can't just "put water on a fire." There are different classes of fires: Class C (electrical), Class D (metal, which is my girlfriend's specialty), Class K (cooking oils and fats), Class B (flammable gasses), and Class A (ordinary combustibles like paper and cardboard). Each class requires a different method to extinguish. Sure, water is a universal agent, but if it were that simple, we wouldn't need foam and other agents for different types of fires.

Martha seems like one of those people who took Home Economics and missed the lesson on how to handle a grease fire. You don't throw water on it; you use baking soda or cover it with a lid and turn off the burner.

I wanted to tell her, in the most hostile way possible, that putting water on an electrical, metallic, or grease fire would make things much worse and cause more harm than good.

When I started to calm down, Martha hit me with the most ignorant comment ever. She said we don't have to deal with trauma. I was ready to give her both barrels about how common Post-Traumatic Stress, severe depression, and divorce are among firefighters. I even told her about how Lusty, my cousin Dave’s wife Linda, and I are in specialized units. We handle incidents like train derailments, plane crashes, building collapses, and other emergencies that require more than just an ax, hose, chainsaw, or Halligan bar. When things go beyond the scope of an Engine and Ladder Company, that's when a Squad or Rescue Company steps in. Our specialized gear alone costs as much as half a fire engine.

We get called to emergencies that need technical rescues. I explained how times have changed and how this job gets more challenging with each generation. The firefighters before us had to learn the hard way, through trial by fire, without the education we have now. We've learned from their experiences, but that doesn't make our job any less demanding or traumatic.

I thought about heading over to talk to Linda about her trauma from 2003. Yes, it was traumatic, but she acts like she was the only one there, the only survivor. I get it feels like yesterday for her, but she forgets that many people have trauma and everyone moves on differently.

Linda needs to get her act together. Her eldest son is almost twelve, about to hit those teenage years when kids start pushing their parents away. They have three other kids, and the second eldest is not far behind. Linda should be spending more time with her kids instead of always being at work. If she keeps this up, her kids might end up resenting her for being so distant.

I decided to visit Linda at home, but when I got to their apartment, only Dave was there. He told me Linda was at work, but his face said it all. "I'm used to it, but I'm doing more as a parent than she is."

I asked Dave what he and the kids were up to. He had turned off the TV and was helping them with their schoolwork because they were already falling behind, even though it was only the first quarter. He was worried, and I suspected it was because Linda was backing out of family life and always pulling the trauma card. Even her siblings don't invite her to anything anymore because she tends to exclude herself and make a public spectacle about her trauma if anyone asks what's wrong.

Dave mentioned he had called the school to dismiss their four kids for the day to focus on their schoolwork. He's the kind of father who takes time out of his life to be there for his kids, essentially doing double duty as both father and mother. Linda, on the other hand, brushes the kids off when she comes home, uninterested in helping them with schoolwork or anything else. Dave told me how Linda even missed Bobby's elementary school graduation because she preferred to work.

Dave tried to get through to her, explaining that she's causing strife within the family. He warned her that one day their kids will grow up and move on, and she’ll miss out on important events like weddings because they won't want to invite her. Linda tried to justify her absence by saying firefighters work long hours and miss family events, but even her own family pointed out that most of these events happened when she was off duty.

If Linda tries to pull that card on me, I'll remind her that many Watersons have trauma, mostly PTSD, and while many don't go to therapy, they find other ways to cope. They have families and don't alienate them. One of the perks of being a Waterson is that we don't use our personal problems to make others feel less than.

I asked Dave if I could come in and help out a bit, and he welcomed me in.

“The first thing I’ve learned about parenting is that it’s not all about me anymore,” Dave said. “When I first became a father, many Watersons told me that parents have to sacrifice a lot of things they want to do.”

Even though I’m not a parent, I understand. There are so many people who shouldn’t be parents because they act like their kids aren’t there and spend money faster than they can earn it. Dave and I know those types—the ones who claim to be great parents but drop their kids off at a friend’s or family member’s house with an excuse like, “I’ve got a job interview,” when in reality, they’re out partying or blowing money on things they can’t afford. They max out credit cards on a lifestyle they can’t sustain and don’t care about their kids.

I even told Dave how humans are the real monsters. Whether it's a nuclear bomb or an alien invasion, human beings don't need an external force to destroy them. All it takes is unfounded fear, suspicion, blame, contempt, and mistrust, and we’ll destroy ourselves just as easily. In other words, we’re worse than anything extraterrestrial.

I then went over to Dave and Linda’s four kids: Bobby, who's eleven, David Junior, who's seven, and Chloe and Linda Junior, who are six.

I heard Chloe ask if their mother hates them. Bobby, trying to be the big brother, told Chloe that their mother doesn’t hate them but prefers work helping others. It’s heartwarming to see an eleven-year-old trying to downplay their mother’s choice of work over family, spinning it in a way to make a six-year-old happy knowing that their mother helps people for a living.

I have a feeling Bobby won’t be able to cover for his mother’s actions forever. He may have sounded sweet and loving, but as an adult, I could hear the strain in his voice. Even he’s tired of defending her, and it’s clear he feels the impact of her absence.

I helped Dave with the kids' schoolwork to help them catch up. Math is always a challenge and often the most hated subject, but we managed to get through it. Bobby was struggling with multiplication, so we focused on that, and by the end, he started to get the hang of it. It felt good to see him understand and gain some confidence.

When Dave had the kids take a break for a snack, he explained that he sets time limits on their study sessions to avoid stressing them out. It’s a smart move; kids need breaks to stay focused and not get overwhelmed.

During the break, Dave and I chatted about our extended family. We have some relatives who aren’t Watersons by blood but by marriage, and they can be pretty demanding. They offer to pay for college but with strict conditions, only allowing majors they approve of. It’s funny how their kids often rebel against these conditions. They’d rather ask other Watersons for tuition money or even take on student loans than bow down to such strict rules. It’s a classic case of trying to control too much and ending up pushing people away.

Dave and I also talked about family members raised by a single Waterson parent after a divorce. Some of these kids turned out bratty and spoiled and when they got mad at their single parent for not having the financial means to cater to their every whim, they went on smear campaigns against them. They tried to paint their single parent as the villain, but other Watersons quickly stepped in to set them straight. They reminded the kids how hard their single parents worked to make them comfortable and that backstabbing them was just wrong.

We never found it funny, but it was ironic how these spoiled kids would try to smear their parents, only to be told off by other Watersons. They'd bring up the single parent's unwavering love and hard work, pointing out that backstabbing them wasn't a way to show love. Some Watersons even threatened legal action for defamation as a scare tactic, and they meant it.

Some of these kids eventually came around to repair their relationship with their single parent, while others either went no contact or assumed their parents wouldn't follow through with the legal threats. It’s a tough situation, but it shows the strength and resilience of the Waterson family.

Dave even shared a story about a female Waterson in Little Bird who had a nightmare wedding because her fiancé always had his sister tagging along, voicing her wants while ignoring his fiancée’s. He constantly took his sister’s side, which drove our relatives crazy. I remember hearing about it when I was back in the States after university, during my Navy training.

Dave told me how he started tagging along with her, voicing what she wanted to say. Unlike Dave, who can keep a calm head under pressure, our relative’s fiancé found it annoying. But she always took Dave’s side, giving her fiancé a taste of his own medicine. That’s a Waterson specialty—giving people a taste of their own medicine.

Dave also mentioned how her fiancé and his sister had the nerve to tell their parents about Dave’s involvement. When they scolded her for involving a family member in the wedding planning, they painted her as insane. But Dave and her family got them to back down, reminding them that in Little Bird, the bride’s family pays for the wedding, so her choice is final. They told her fiancé’s family that if they wanted anything different, they could foot the bill themselves.

Dave and the other Watersons figured out that the wedding was called off because our female relative’s parents had the nerve to send bills to her fiancé. When his parents screamed at them, her parents simply said, “You want to keep any expenses that your son’s sister wants, so you can foot those bills. We’re paying for our daughter’s expenses, so anything your daughter wants to add to someone else’s wedding, you can pay for her expenses.”

It’s funny to me how her fiancé’s parents claimed they didn’t have the financial means to pay for what their daughter wanted. They were just expecting the added expenses to go unnoticed. But one thing about us Watersons is that we pay attention to our expenses and take notice of everything.

Dave also mentioned how our female relative’s parents were able to book a restaurant for lunch or dinner after the wedding. However, her fiancé’s parents refused the idea of eating at a restaurant and wanted to hire a caterer with the most expensive food, the kind you’d find at luxury restaurants.

Dave shared how all the Watersons who were invited to the wedding decided to stick around even after it was called off. They had already taken time off work, and since cell phones are rare in Little Bird, their employers couldn’t just call them back in. They were there for her, not just as guests, but as family. That post-wedding lunch happened when I was already done with my Navy training and assigned to the USS Ticonderoga.

Dave and I talked about how our family is different from others. We’re there for each other in a literal sense. We also talked about my great-granddad, who is Dave’s granddad. Most of his sons were born post-World War II and many fought in Vietnam. Their father, who fought in both World Wars and Korea, suffered from what was known as 'shell shock' or 'combat neurosis.' Before the 1970s, people just suppressed their trauma. My great-granddad was the first Waterson to be a fireman, and he allowed his sons who fought in Vietnam to stay on his farm in Upstate New York. He wanted to help them even though his other sons who fought in World War II or Korea didn’t say much about their experiences. They were from a different era and didn’t believe in battle fatigue, even though they had sleepless nights.

Dave appreciated how their father let them stay on his farm, which he bought with his G.I. Bill money in 1945. He moved there in 1966 after retiring and let his sons who came back from Vietnam live and work on the land. It was a way for them to help each other and talk about their experiences instead of pretending they didn’t exist.

We even talked about some of our male family members who married gold diggers. Those male Watersons are smart, though—they have checks and balances in place. It’s funny how their gold-digging wives ask for their credit or debit cards to buy their own Valentine’s Day or birthday gifts. While many people do buy their own gifts, on a romantic day like Valentine’s Day, the other partner should be the one buying the gift. Us Watersons usually try to get the best but not too expensive gift. But when their gold-digging wives want the most expensive gifts, it’s a different story.

Dave mentioned how some Watersons died from cancer or other terminal illnesses, and their gold-digging spouses or lovers tried to take all their money or cards for themselves. But the other Watersons got the last laugh by using the deceased’s money for the funeral and canceling the cards. It’s another classic Waterson move—always staying one step ahead and making sure no one takes advantage of us.

After the break, I went back to help Linda and Dave’s kids with their schoolwork. They’re still in summer break mode, not quite ready to buckle down and learn. If it were up to me, I’d tell Dave to divorce Linda. She’s working so much overtime that she’s neglecting her kids and any judge would see that. But I kept quiet because sooner or later, something will happen that’ll make Linda rethink her life choices. I hope it happens soon, before the kids become teenagers and start bringing home dates for prom or graduation photos.

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It’s sad how Dave has to handle things in a way the kids don’t understand, but I do. He says it’s tough seeing Bobby, David Jr., Chloe, and Linda Jr. spend more time with their uncles Stephen, Daniel, Steven, Mike, and Michael, and their aunt Chloe, than with their own mother. All of Linda’s siblings are in the fire department too, and they still find time for family. They don’t let their on-the-job trauma get in the way of bonding with their loved ones. Some of Linda’s brothers are even officers, yet they manage to balance work and family life.

It’s a tough situation, but I hope Linda realizes what she’s missing before it’s too late.

After a couple of hours, I left the apartment feeling accomplished. I had helped Chloe and Linda Jr., who are fraternal twins, with their basic math—adding and subtracting. To make it more engaging, I used money to teach them. This way, they not only learned math but also how to count money, which is a valuable skill. Chloe and Linda Jr. are almost at the age where their dad will start giving them money to go out, buy candy, or go to the movies. It felt good to know I was helping them prepare for that.

_________

At Rescue Company 17 quarters, I walked in and made a beeline straight for Linda’s office.

I found her there doing paperwork, but she looked confused, tapping the pencil eraser on the paper. She seemed either confused or sleep-deprived. Working in a rescue company is demanding; they respond to specialized fire rescue incidents beyond the scope of standard engine, ladder, or squad companies. Rescue companies operate rescue trucks, nicknamed "tool boxes on wheels," carrying a wide variety of specialized tools and equipment for technical rescue situations like rope rescues, building collapses, confined space rescues, trench rescues, machinery and vehicle extrications, water rescues, and more. They respond to all structure fires of a third alarm or higher unless the incident commander requests specialized tools for first or second alarm fires.

"Hey Linda," I said, stepping into her office. "You look a bit worn out. How's the workload treating you?"

Linda looked up, her eyes tired. "It's been rough, Mac. The paperwork never ends, and the calls have been relentless. I feel like I'm barely keeping my head above water."

“Have you thought about using your time off to get some rest and relaxation?” I asked. “Dave’s father, Bobby, and his uncle, Clark, were the kind of firefighter officers who always wanted their crew to be 100%. Dave’s the same way. They believe that if you’re not in the right mental or emotional state, you should go home, rest, and come back when you’re ready. They always said, ‘If you can’t help yourself, you can’t help others.’ It makes sense because if you’re distracted and not fully paying attention, someone or yourself could get hurt or worse.”

Linda looked taken aback. She wasn’t expecting me to bring up the kind of officers Dave’s dad and uncle were, or the kind of officer Dave is. Mental state is a big deal to them. They want their crew to be on top of any situation without needing constant direction.

When Linda was about to open her mouth, I cut her off. "If you pull the trauma card, Linda, I’ll drag you to talk to some of my family members who’ve seen their best friends killed in war. They’ve witnessed deaths from bullets, explosions, fire, and even natural disasters. They’ve seen the last moments of their friends’ lives in the most horrific ways."

Linda tried to say that family life was fine, but I wasn’t having it. "That’s a lie, Linda. I just visited Dave and the kids. Dave is doubling down as a parent, taking the day off to help the kids catch up on their schoolwork. He’s doing everything he can because you’re not there. When an eleven-year-old has to lie to his younger sisters to protect them from the truth about their mother, that speaks volumes."

Linda looked like she wanted to argue, but I pressed on. "Your constant working and absence are taking a toll. People don’t invite you to things because you make everything gloomy by pulling the trauma card. It’s time to face the reality of what your choices are doing to your family."

When Linda opened her mouth, I cut her off. "Look, Linda, my girlfriend Lusty is a single mother with seven daughters. She lost her parents on her second day as a probationary firefighter and has fourteen years of trauma from the job. There have been times when she’s on edge and ready to snap at her daughters when they ask for help with schoolwork or money for candy or movies. But instead of snapping, she stays her lovable self. She doesn’t take out her issues on her kids. If they ask for money, she gives it to them without a second thought. When they leave for the movies or the candy store, she takes that time for herself, maybe a hot bubble bath.

"Lusty spends time with her daughters despite her demanding job. She has people she trusts to watch her kids when she’s on shift. She doesn’t use her personal problems as an excuse to neglect her children. You need to find a way to balance your work and family life, Linda. Your kids need you, and you can’t keep using your trauma as a shield to avoid your responsibilities at home." I said.

"I know Lusty has no excuse for what she’s done, and sooner or later, other people would’ve called her out on it," I said, looking Linda straight in the eye. "Even Dave told me how you’ve missed holidays. The Fire Department City of Empire has a system where married firefighters with kids don’t have to work holidays, but you choose to work instead of being home. That speaks volumes."

I continued, "If your sons or daughters enter high school and get dates for prom or a dance, you’ll miss it. They won’t even tell you because they’ll see how ‘uninterested’ you are in their lives. If they get married or have children in the future, they’ll tell Dave because he’s been more of a parent than you."

Linda opened her mouth to respond, but I cut her off. "Cry me a river, Linda. Have you ever stopped to think about other victims? You’re not the sole survivor. Think about the 2,823 firefighters, 45 police officers, and several thousand civilians who died. Many of them left families behind. Kids are growing up without a father or mother, or are orphaned because they lost both parents."

I paused, letting my words sink in. "You’re not alone in your trauma. Many people, even entire families, are affected by it. It’s time to stop using it as an excuse and start being there for your family."

When Linda finally spoke, I let her talk. She shared how, in the week after the disaster, she and her company and many other fire stations members dropped off everyday essentials in paper bags to the city of Chocolate for the families suffering right after the event. They sent items to help these families get back on their feet or support them until they could find a job if they were stay-at-home parents who lost their spouse. Linda explained that many people in Little Bird rely on a single income, which is common in our country. While some families have both parents working, many rely on just one.

I wasn’t going to argue. It’s great that she and many others helped out complete strangers, but that was almost ten years ago. Linda acts like it was yesterday.

"Linda, it’s commendable that you helped those families, but you can’t keep living in the past. Your family needs you now. It’s time to focus on the present and be there for Dave and the kids. They need their mother, not just a firefighter who’s always at work." I said.

Before either of us could say anything, the fire bell went off for a call about a person under a train. Linda jumped up, nearly falling over from what I guessed was sleep deprivation. I wasn’t going to stop her, though. Duty calls, and she’s still a firefighter through and through.

I decided to head back to my apartment.

----------------------------------------

Back at my place, I sat down at the dining room table and picked up my phone to check social media. My mom was at it again on her anonymous account, showing her stupidity in spades. The comments were full of people calling her out. Her latest post was about me, criticizing me for not fitting her “ideals” of what a woman should be. Honestly, I don’t care. I’m not a manipulative, lying addict who takes advantage of others’ generosity.

In the past, when some of her family members put her in rehab, she manipulated the narrative and painted them as the bad guys. They eventually threw up their hands and cut contact with her. The last time she heard from her side of the family was in the mid to late 1980s at the latest or the early 1970s at the earliest.

I’m not going to let her nonsense get to me. I know who I am and what I stand for.

Soon, Martha sat down across from me. I could tell she was gearing up to ask me to foot the bill for Jake and Alex’s college tuition.

Before she could get there, I changed the subject. “You know, the bean counters can do whatever they want, but they’re still going to have 100 people competing for one spot.”

“What do you mean?” Martha asked, taken aback.

“My job is competitive,” I explained. “You can have five hundred people take the civil servant entrance exam, but only a handful get chosen. That’s about 100 people, and they’re picked for one reason or another—either luck or some kind of skill.”

Martha managed to steer the conversation back to asking me to foot the bill for Jake and Alex’s college tuition. I reminded her that Arcane University only accepts students who are willing to go the extra mile; they don’t just accept anyone.

When Martha said that was discriminatory, I explained that colleges and universities have the right to accept or decline any student who applies. They can even rescind acceptance letters. It’s not discrimination unless it’s based on factors like religion or nationality, which would violate one of the Little Bird Amendments. “Everyone has the right to access public and private education.”

I told Martha that I’m not financially responsible for my stepbrothers, and her lack of planning isn’t my problem. She admitted she hadn’t realized how expensive college was and asked me to cover the costs, promising she and my father would pay me back. I agreed, but only if we had a legal contract stating she would repay a certain amount over the course of their college terms, with interest.

Instead of a verbal agreement, we went to a lawyer to get a written contract. After a few minutes, Martha signed it, agreeing that she and my father would be indebted to pay me back for the tuition costs, which I estimated to be around $12-16k.

Of course, the legal contract ensures they can't leave me with the entire bill or back out at any time. If they do, I can sue for breach of contract. Knowing my dad, he doesn’t want to alienate me again. If they left me with the full bill, every Waterson alive would metaphorically tear my dad and stepmom apart for taking advantage of my generosity. They’d tell them that if they couldn’t afford college, they should have had my stepbrothers take out loans or not send them at all.

Jake is smart enough that he could probably get a full-ride scholarship, but Alex is a different story. He’s the type who might flunk out or get kicked out, whichever comes first.

I then brought up why I was excluded from her and my dad’s wedding. Martha explained that they didn’t want to bother me with my career and my relationship with Lusty. They thought that if they invited me, they’d have to reschedule the wedding, and they didn’t want me to lose money. My dad told her that if he was to remarry, I would break my bank to be there, both metaphorically and literally. He didn’t want me to spend all my money on a round-trip first-class plane ticket. The wedding was planned within a month, so they panicked. My dad wanted to invite me but didn’t know my schedule, so they married during the week I was working and went with the venue's first open spot.

I thought about bringing up a family with Martha, but I knew she'd start pushing me to have kids, and I'm just not in the mood for that conversation. Instead, I remembered a story about one of my female relatives. She was married to a guy who was both a mama's boy and a puppet, always siding with his family over her.

One day, she gave him an ultimatum: choose her and their child or his parents and sister. His family constantly crossed boundaries and ignored her wishes, so she decided to divorce him. He tried to intimidate her, boasting about his wealthy parents and their connections with judges, threatening to make her life miserable. But she wasn't having any of it. She warned him that her family could report every judge his family knew for abuse of authority and corruption. When he called her bluff, she pulled out her flip phone and called a family member right in front of him. That shut him up real quick.

Whenever he or his family tried to threaten her after that, it was all bark and no bite. But us Watersons? Our bite is way worse than our bark.

I've got a few relatives who are Watersons by blood but were adopted by other family members. Their biological parents, who married into the Waterson family, didn't care much and just dropped them off at a Waterson's home. When the adopting Waterson revised their will to include these kids, things got interesting.

Once the kids inherited something—be it money, a house, an apartment, or even a penthouse—their biological parents, who aren't Waterson’s by blood, suddenly wanted back into their lives. They expected their kids to hand over money or transfer the property into their names. But here's the thing, when a Waterson changes their will, it's a big deal and not done lightly.

So, when these parents tried to swoop back in, they found out the hard way that us Watersons don't take kindly to such opportunistic behavior. Our family stands strong together, and we don't let anyone take advantage of us.

I thought about telling Martha how some of my relatives, who married into the Waterson family, put down their kids and claim they'll be useless in the future. They even criticize their spouses, who are Watersons by blood, for having low-paying but honest, hardworking jobs.

But here's the thing about us Watersons; we take pride in our backbreaking work. Whether it's custodial work, farming, commercial fishing, logging, landscaping, pest control, waste collection and disposal, recycling, construction, maintenance, shipping, driving, or trucking, we do it all. We know the value of hard work and resilience.

Sure, some of us have white-collar careers, and we tease them lovingly, saying they don't have the thick skin for blue-collar labor. It's all in good fun, though. Most of us earn an hourly wage, and we take pride in every dollar we make through our sweat and effort.

Our family might be diverse in what we do, but we stand united in our values and our work ethic. No matter what, we support each other through thick and thin.

I thought about telling Martha how diverse our family is when it comes to careers. Us Watersons are known for our hard work across various fields. Many of us are in blue-collar, black-collar, gold-collar, and silver (gray) collar jobs, and a good number serve in the military. Traditionally, the women in our family have worked in pink-collar or white-collar careers. But starting in the late 20th century and continuing into the 21st, more and more female Watersons have branched out into other fields, including the military, blue-collar, gold-collar, and silver/gray collar jobs, just like their male relatives.

In the country of Little Bird, female Watersons had a unique advantage, getting a head start in these careers. Many of them joined the military, not just out of a sense of duty, but also to use the benefits for advanced education. They often used military funds to go back to school, whether it was college, vocational school, technical courses, correspondence courses, or apprenticeship/job training programs. But with me it was the opposite. I went to college first then joined the military.

___________________

Next monday.

At the firehouse, I was mulling over how I could’ve told my stepmom to back off about helping my step brothers get into university. Just then, my phone buzzed. It was her, asking if she, Jake, and Alex could come over on Sunday to help them with the Arcane University Enrollment and Aptitude Test. I shot back a text explaining the points system for reduced tuition:

* 1200 Points: $2500/term Scholarship

* 1800 Points: $1000/term Scholarship

* 2000 Points: Full Ride Scholarship

I also mentioned that the base score is 600, with a max of 2400. Scoring between 2000 and 2400 points gets you a full ride.

I even laid out the majors for her: Business, Communication, Fire Arts, Physical Education, Technology, Culinary, Science and Medicine, Biology, Drama, Economics, Literature, History, Mathematics, Philosophy, Physics, Psychology, Political Science, Computer Science, Language & Literature, and Psychology.

Honestly, I don’t know why she thinks I need their help, but whatever. If she and Alex thinks that I’m going to do said test for them to either get a reduced tuition or for a full ride scholarship, well I’ll read it over with them and I’ll help them go over the application papers if need be before they do the Aptitude test. But actually doing it for them? Not a chance in hell.

I put my phone on silent, trying to block out Martha's constant nagging. She just doesn't get it. Sure, I took the basic fire academy courses like everyone else, but that was just the beginning. I had to convince the higher-ups at the academy that I was serious about going to rescue training school. I wanted to take advanced classes like Vertical Rescue, HAZMAT Level A, and Building Collapse. Not only did I have to pay for these classes, but I also had to prove that I was committed and not just there to "check it out."

Taking those advanced classes gave cadets like me a shot at joining a Squad Company, even without on-the-job experience. But it came with a price—being ostracized for joining a specialized unit without the usual experience. That's why Rescue Companies require at least five years of experience before you can even think about Technical Rescue and Rescue School.

I tried to explain to Martha how competitive my job is. There are only a handful of open spots, usually due to on-the-job deaths, retirements, promotions, or transfers. For those few spots, you have about a hundred people competing. It's intense.

Just as I was trying to tune out Martha's nagging, the fire bell went off for a subway fire. The dispatcher announced that Squad 769 would be the RIT Rescue Company. I couldn't help but mutter to myself, "Yeah, I joined the fire department just to stand around and let everyone else do the work."

It's frustrating sometimes, but I know the importance of our role. Being ready to jump in when things go south is crucial, even if it means waiting on the sidelines.

But that's the thing I love about the fire department, and it's something my girlfriend, my cousin Dave, and his wife all share. It's not a normal job—no two days are the same, and every shift brings something different. How many people can truly say they love their job? Most are bored to death. But for us, each shift is an adventure.

My girlfriend, Dave's wife, and I get especially excited when we get called to something specialized or a fire that's a 2nd alarm or higher. Sure, people might like their 9-5 jobs, but doing the same thing every day gets old fast. We like the unpredictability and the challenge.

Dave once told me about a day in Emerald Pastors, a middle-class district where they didn't get a single fire call. The people there can be pretty naive—leaving burning cigarettes over paint, towels next to stoves, or falling asleep with a lit cigarette. It's a recipe for disaster.

At least I'm stationed in a part of the city where my girlfriend is from. The folks here have a lot more common sense. They know to keep flammable things away from what can ignite them. It makes our job a bit easier, but there's always something new around the corner.

As I was gearing up, I couldn’t help but think about how the folks in Emerald Pastors remind me of those Oompa Loompas from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. They should probably stop watching TV and pick up a book or ask questions to learn something new. Honestly, they’re living proof that maybe people should take tests before having kids.

Emerald Pastors is full of people who grew up with instant entertainment, instant communication, and instant money. They’ve been conditioned to call for help at the slightest inconvenience. Meanwhile, over here in Eastside, it’s a different story. According to my girlfriend, people didn’t have TVs or radios or both growing up. Their entertainment was limited to the newspaper delivered on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings, or watching a fistfight on Friday nights. And those fights? Both would laugh it off, and the two fighters would end up as friends. Or watching firefighters fight fires.

____________

At the subway station, we were just standing around while other companies went in to fight the fire, rescue anyone trapped, and ventilate the dense black smoke from the subway system.

Time seemed to crawl. Every time I checked my watch, it felt like the seconds were dragging on forever. Each minute felt like an hour, but when I looked again, only thirty seconds had passed. It was one of those moments where you just want to jump in and help, but all you can do is wait.

We heard other firefighters talking as they came and went, needing longer-lasting air bottles or tools like blowtorches to cut through reinforced doors. We just stood around, waiting, while others got to work.

Then, over the radio, we heard, "Rescue 1-7 to Battalion 1-8, got an officer down."

We sprang into action, grabbing hand tools. I picked up the Rapid Air Transport (RAT) bag, which slips over an SCBA bottle and holds an extra mask to provide a downed firefighter with air.

It's nothing like TV or movies which portrays smoke not as blinding. The subway was pitch black from the dense smoke. In real fires, the smoke is so blinding that we have to feel our way around with our hands. I remember hating that training trailer with no light, forcing us to rely on a sense of touch. But our SCBA masks are advanced now, with thermal imaging and augmented reality technology, making it a bit easier to navigate through the chaos.

Our masks are pretty futuristic. They can automatically switch off the thermal imaging and augmented reality if we're outside facing the sun, well just outside in general, so we don't hurt our eyes. They outline civilians and other firefighters in green, objects like payphones in light orange, and anything hot or in danger of catching fire in red. It's amazing how years of research and development have brought us to this point.

If my girlfriend were here, she'd probably go on about how people think fewer fires are good. Sure, there are fewer fires than thirty years ago, but the ones we do have are much hotter. That's because modern home furnishings are made of synthetics and plastics, which burn hotter than natural materials.

Standing there, everything in me was screaming not to be in that subway, even with the company. It's that natural instinct, that fear, telling us to get out. But we push through it because that's what we do.

I was in the middle of the group, knowing that Squad Companies like ours can function as either engine or ladder companies at a fire scene. We're equipped with the same specialized tools as rescue companies, ready for anything.

Visibility was zero, but our masks provided us with information—rapid temperature changes, individual firefighter body temperatures, oxygen levels, and a 360-degree scan for contaminants. Officers like Captains and Lieutenants can monitor their crew, while Battalion and Division Chiefs keep an eye on all firefighters on scene. They can check body temps and ensure everyone gets out before heat stroke sets in. Our turnout gear protects us from heat, but it has its limits.

The idea of helping my step brothers with their Arcane University applications flew right out of my mind. When I'm on the job, I stay focused on the here and now. I can't afford distractions, especially when lives are on the line. Thinking about something months down the road just isn't my style.

In the middle of a call, all that matters is the task at hand. Everything else can wait.

I had a gut feeling that the officer down was Linda. Dave and I had tried to warn her about the dangers of overworking without taking breaks for rest and relaxation. In a physically demanding job like ours, especially in a specialized unit, the risk of getting hurt or making mistakes is much higher.

Linda's unit, Rescue Co 17, had an intense year back in 2009, responding to 28,894 calls. Half of those were fires, with many being all-hands or third-alarm or higher fires. The rest were technical rescues, water rescues, or situations that regular Engine, Ladder, or Squad companies couldn't handle.

When we heard "officer down" over the radio, I couldn't shake the feeling it was Linda. She always chose work over spending time with her family, and we tried to warn her that something like this could happen. It's a harsh reminder of the importance of balance, even in a job as demanding as ours.

We kept moving deeper into the subway tunnel, relying on our longer-lasting air bottles. They’re rated for 45 minutes, but with our bodies working overtime, they really only last about 30 minutes. Engine and Truck Companies carry the standard half-hour bottles, which realistically give them about 15 minutes of air.

My girlfriend mentioned that the fire department has "Mask Service Units" equipped to refill air bottles. They can upgrade the standard half-hour bottles to ones that last up to an hour and forty-five minutes. It's a lifesaver in situations like this, where every minute counts.

As we pushed further in, the weight of the situation hit me. The deeper we went, the more critical it became to stay focused and rely on our training and equipment.

It felt like the Battalion Chief was getting impatient, asking for our progress report even though it had only been five minutes. There was some structural collapse inside the tunnel, with debris everywhere, making it tough to get through. The Chief said more equipment was on the way, but it would take 10-20 minutes. That wasn't good enough for us, so we kept pushing forward, navigating around the caved-in sections.

If the downed officer is Linda, and she tries to blame her training, I'd have to set her straight. It's not the training that failed her—it's the lack of rest. Our schedule is demanding. Work one day, off one, work one, off two, work one, off four. If she's not getting enough sleep, it's no wonder she's making mistakes.

Sleep deprivation can seriously mess with your brain's ability to handle emotional events and make proper decisions. It affects alertness and cognitive performance, especially in the thalamus and prefrontal cortex—areas crucial for attention and higher-order thinking. In our line of work, being alert and attentive is what keeps us alive, along with our fear, training and experience.

So, if it is Linda, she needs to understand that pushing herself too hard without rest is a recipe for disaster. We all need to balance our dedication with self-care to stay sharp and safe on the job.

I only knew that because well part of my certified first responder training was about how the average person needs 8-10 hours of rest and well if it is Linda then she’s going to be the only one to blame for her own actions

My cousin Dave and my girlfriend Lusty always say, "You know if you're cut out for this job. Dismemberment, MVAs, fires, casualties—you know if you can handle it."

If the downed officer is Linda, I hope this is a wake-up call for her. According to Dave, she's already lost a brother, an adoptive brother, and a sister to this job. One fell into a fire, another into corrosive acid, and her sister Sarah... Well, she made a fatal mistake. They were called to a high-rise to rescue trapped window washers. The platform was unstable, and despite Dave's warnings, Sarah stepped out and fell 24 stories when the platform gave way underneath her foot.

Dave said Linda's family wasn't shocked by Sarah's death. They knew how hard headed she was. In this job, ignoring experience and advice can be deadly. Their father even said Sarah wouldn't have survived a year on the job, but HQ was hesitant to cut her from training because their father was a respected battalion chief, and many of her siblings are respected officers.

We kept pushing deeper into the tunnel. I checked my breathing apparatus oxygen meter and saw I had half a tank left. Even though the reading was displayed on my advanced air mask, old habits from training kicked in. Back then, we used standard masks and had to manually check our oxygen meters, making educated guesses about how much air we had left.

In training, the meter arrow in green meant plenty of air, yellow meant we still had enough but should consider leaving soon, and red meant we were running dangerously low or out of air. Those lessons stick with you, even with all the new tech we have now. Guess it’s that living saying of “Old habits die hard.”

We soon heard a distant beeping sound echoing through the tunnel. We doubled our pace and found Linda. I quickly grabbed the spare mask from my RIT bag, removed her mask, and put the new one on her to give her oxygen. We had to carry her out.

The rest of my company got called away to assist another firefighter, so I told them I had this. I never expected to carry a 187-pound woman while wearing 100 pounds of gear, but I used every muscle and fiber of my being—strength I didn't even know I had.

Even though the rescue operation was long, it felt like one of those trips where getting there takes forever, but the way back seems quicker. Heading to Linda's location felt like it took ages, but returning didn't seem as long.

I managed to bring Linda to the surface and handed her over to the ambulance crew. They removed her breathing apparatus and turnout gear jacket, then put her in the back of the ambulance. An EMT placed a breathing mask on her face while a paramedic started chest compressions, counting to five before the EMT told them to go.

As the paramedic worked, I heard two sets of footsteps approaching. It was my cousin Dave and his sister-in-law, Linda's sister Chloe. It was heartbreaking, but they didn't come over as a worried husband and sister—they came over as concerned fellow firefighters.

After a minute, the EMT said they got something, and Linda started to cough. Dave told me, "Good job," and Chloe pointed out that I was bleeding on the side of my head and should get it treated. I must have hit something on the way out but ignored it at that moment.

As I got my minor cut treated, I couldn't help but think about how I could never be a battalion or division chief. Making those tough choices isn't for me. My girlfriend, Lusty, always says it's the officer's job to ensure their company doesn't face the consequences of trying to beat the clock. There's always a consequence.

Years ago, Lusty was the incident commander at a structural collapse. One firefighter blamed her for his brother's death, even though she ordered him to get out. When he got trapped, Lusty refused to send anyone else in to assist him, even though he ran in to help his brother. She pulled him out just seconds before the roof caved in on them.

Lusty suspended him for not listening to her orders, and he filed a grievance against her. The fire department, technical services, and outside parties all cleared Lusty of any wrongdoing. The radio transmissions clearly showed she ordered everyone to get out. He chose to play cowboy, and there was no one to blame but himself. He was eventually transferred to another company because the other five members of Squad Co 141 threatened to resign. They didn't feel comfortable working with someone who acted like a man-child because he didn't like Lusty's decision.

Lusty mentioned that the fire department transferred him to a slower house to avoid losing an entire company of specialized firefighters. Each member of Squad 141 has unique skills that would be incredibly hard to replace. I know the A shift roster, and each one brings something different to the table. If all five had resigned in protest, their skills would have been lost, and that would have been a huge blow.

Imagine the media picking up on it: a member trained in combat demolitions, another in avalanche and mountain rescue, one who's an expert in all types of construction trades, another skilled in using heavy equipment like bulldozers, and one who's an expert in engineering. Losing that kind of talent would hurt the department badly. Catering to someone who's just crying over spilled milk wouldn't look good either

._______________

The next day at the hospital, I saw seven men walk by, heading towards Linda's room.

"Who are they?" I asked.

Dave replied, "Linda's brothers. Judging by their posture, I guess they're going to give Linda not just a piece of their mind, but the whole thing. Hopefully, this will be a wake-up call for her."

I couldn't help but think about how many people in my family have those sisters-in-law who want to use someone else's house for their baby shower, only to tell the hosts to leave before the guests arrive because it's "for close family members." It's a different kind of drama, but it reminded me of how family dynamics can be so complicated.

I decided to head back, and as Dave predicted, Linda's brothers were giving her a serious talking-to. They were furious about her pushing herself too hard, working inhuman amounts of overtime, and neglecting her family. When Linda tried to speak, one of her brothers cut her off, telling her to shut it because nothing she said could justify her actions.

It was almost satisfying to see her brothers lay into her, especially when they mentioned how even her eleven-year-old son was making excuses for her absence. They could hear the sadness in his voice, and he was on the verge of not defending his mother to his younger siblings. It was a harsh reality check for Linda, and hopefully, it would make her rethink her priorities.

One of Linda's brothers even said that if Dave ever decided to file for divorce and full custody of their two sons and two daughters, they would support him. They see that Dave is there for the kids when he's not working, despite having a demanding job. Before Linda's trauma, she and Dave split their chores 50/50, but now it's all on Dave. He's doing everything—taking care of the kids, managing the household—while Linda just works or hides away, not participating in their lives.

When an eleven-year-old has to defend his mother but is on the verge of giving up, it's a clear sign that something needs to change. Linda's brothers were brutally honest, hoping this would be the wake-up call she desperately needs. It's tough to watch, but sometimes the truth is the only way to get through to someone.

When I returned to the waiting room, I saw Dave getting up to leave. I asked where he was going, and he simply said he had a family emergency to deal with. He told me I could leave if I wanted to, so I decided to head out with him. I chose not to ask about the family emergency—some questions are best left unasked.

As we walked out together, I couldn't help but think about everything that had happened. Sometimes, it's better to give people space and let them handle their issues in their own way.

As we were leaving, Dave passed someone and casually said, "Morning, Chief." Curious, I asked who it was. Dave explained that the man was Retired Battalion Chief Kai Richter, Linda's father. He had quite a history—firefighter for the City of Empire from 1957-1966, a tour in Vietnam, then back to firefighting from 1967-1980. He climbed the ranks, becoming a Captain, then a Lieutenant in 1982, and finally a Battalion Chief from 1987 until his retirement last year.

Dave shared that Linda's dad initially didn't like them dating, but he eventually accepted it because he didn't want to risk his daughter's happiness. Chief Richter had to make many tough decisions throughout his career, each with significant consequences. Decisions like whether to risk an entire company to save one person, knowing they won’t make it out, or to pull the company out and leave the victim behind. Those are the kinds of choices chiefs like him have to make quickly. There's no sitting on the fence or making decisions that take time, where there's no fairy tale ending.

Before we got to our cars, Dave shared a story about Chief Richter from back in November 2003. He explained how Chief Richter ordered Ladder Co Eighteen to evacuate after they found an unconscious victim. The fire had reached the trusses, and the structure was on the verge of collapse. Just a minute after they evacuated, the building collapsed. The victim's brother filed an untimely death lawsuit, but it was thrown out because he hadn't helped his family member.

Dave told the guy off, saying he didn't have to make life-or-death decisions. Working a 9-5 office job, the biggest danger is a paper cut. But for Chief Richter, under A shift alone, he had 326 firefighters under his command before he retired. The weight of those decisions is immense, and it's something only those in the field can truly understand.

I decided to check on all three of the bars I bought, just to double-check everything before finally opening them. I figured it was better to get it over with and do my inspection tonight.

Everything was in order—clean and ready to go. The three renovation companies I hired did a great job. As I thoroughly inspected the bars, my mind wandered to my family members who have pushover spouses. These spouses cater to their kids' every whim, while the Waterson parent—whether husband/father or wife/mother—tries to be there for their kids without spoiling them.

It's frustrating to see the kids get mad and throw fits when the Waterson parent sets rules and boundaries, only to have their spouse undermine them by telling the kids to ignore those rules. This causes marital strife because the Waterson parent is trying to teach their kids right from wrong, but their spouse goes behind their back.

Sooner or later, the kids start believing they don't have to listen to the Waterson parent. But we Watersons are the living definition of "Two can play this game." If a spouse tells the kids to ignore the rules, the Waterson parent will do the same, ensuring that respect and boundaries are maintained, even if it means playing a bit of a game themselves.

I've heard through the grapevine about one of my family members, a Waterson by blood, who got a call from her son after he was arrested. She told him, "You got yourself in that mess, you get yourself out," and "It's easy to get in there, but it's hard to get out." She refused to help him because her husband had a habit of bailing their son out, reinforcing the idea that "Daddy will always be there, even if he breaks the law."

I side with my family members who set rules and boundaries, not just because they're family, but because they're trying to teach their kids right from wrong. It's frustrating when their spouses undermine them, telling the kids to ignore the rules. It's a recipe for disaster when kids believe there are no consequences for their actions.

When the kids ignore the Waterson parent, that parent often plays the same game, ignoring their spoiled and entitled behavior. It's a tough situation, but sometimes it's the only way to get through to them. Two can play that game, and sometimes, it's the only way to make a point.

I find it amusing how entitled people expect the world to hand them everything just because they exist. But I love it when Karma and the universe give them a reality check, showing that the world doesn't bow to them. With smartphones and social media, many of these spoiled individuals think they're "influencers" and expect their words to be taken as gospel. They believe companies, brands, and even celebrities should follow or endorse them.

In reality, if they want to think they're influencers, they'll quickly lose their fans and followers once their true colors show. Trust me, those true colors always come out eventually. If they do manage to get followers, they better watch out for those loony fans.

For us Watersons, hard work pays off in the long run. There are no shortcuts to success. Many of my spoiled family members who try to take shortcuts usually find out it's not worth it because things don't turn out as they expect. Growing up in the '80s and early '90s, I was taught that "hard work is happy work." When my dad was deployed for Operation Just Cause and the Gulf War, I saw firsthand how many Watersons became carpenters, electricians, and other tradespeople, earning good money through hard work.

Meanwhile, the spoiled ones would say, "hard work isn't for them," which is no surprise since they've been catered to their every whim and expect everything on a golden platter encrusted with diamonds. It's a stark contrast, but it shows the value of hard work and the reality checks that life inevitably brings.

When I stayed with extended family while my dad was deployed, I saw how Waterson fathers taught their daughters about cars. It’s a valuable skill, especially since some female Watersons who drive have been taken advantage of by mechanics. They didn’t know the difference between a camshaft and a carburetor, making them easy targets. Nowadays, we female Watersons are more savvy, and we know how some mechanics overcharge people who don’t know much about cars. It’s wrong and, to me, immoral.

Growing up in the Southern United States, I always went to church and Bible study on Wednesday nights. It was a godsend because it kept me away from my mother. The pastor often preached about the immorality of taking advantage of others' naivety. While I’m not a religious fanatic, I believe it’s morally wrong to scam people who are clueless in certain fields.

As a firefighter, I love the physical demands of my career, but I don’t flaunt it in my family’s face. Many of my relatives have physically demanding jobs in trades or construction, while others pursued advanced education and different careers. When I went to Arcane University for orientation, the professor said, “Getting a degree is like getting a golden ticket, but be open-minded. The career you want might not be available, so be willing to take lower-paying jobs.”

My dad always said there’s always work for those willing to do physical, backbreaking labor, but not everyone is hiring for specialized roles that require a degree. Some of my classmates were closed-minded, only applying for unavailable jobs. Others, including myself, took on menial, backbreaking work that paid pennies just to avoid relying on our parents for money. Many of us worked part-time jobs after school, which meant we couldn’t do schoolwork. We’d get back late, hit the shower, and go straight to bed, only to wake up early for the next school day.

Hard work has always been a core value for us Watersons. It’s not just about making a living; it’s about building character and resilience. While some of my spoiled family members might not see it that way, I know that the lessons learned through hard work are invaluable.

I can just imagine my spoiled and entitled family members balking at the idea of hard work if they went to university or college and needed money. They'd probably say, "Eww, hard work? Are you kidding?" When I was at Arcane University, I had a part-time job stocking shelves at a supermarket. If it was a school night, I'd work after the store closed at 9 PM, usually alone. It was tough, especially since I was still adjusting to Pacific Time instead of Central Time.

I got paid a bit more for overnight hours, but during the day shift on weekends or when there was no school, it was just minimum wage. I remember my first check being $22.33 for a whole week of work. I was about to complain, but then I remembered that the minimum wage in my country hadn't changed since 1963 and was still $1.25/hr. I learned to be content with it, even though I was used to making $130 as a part-time waitress in high school back in Alabama.

If my entitled family members got my part-time pay as a stocker, they'd throw a fit because it's not what they want. At university, many students had part-time jobs, and the pay varied. Some jobs paid slightly more, some a lot less. Many of my friends with morning and afternoon classes worked part-time in bars or other places, putting in ten-hour days for three and a half days a week, earning $10.22/day. Working longer days meant they had the rest of the week for schoolwork.

Some classmates weren't prepared for how tough Arcane University was. I know my entitled family members wouldn't last long. If they used work as an excuse for not doing homework or group projects, the professors would say, "Your inability to manage your time isn't my problem; it's yours." That was a wake-up call for many, showing that the excuses that worked in elementary, middle, and high school wouldn't fly here. They needed better time management.

When I was studying at Arcane University, I took the bus to work and used that time to do as much homework as I could. Even after I got a car, I'd do my homework in the car before my shift started. I still remember getting my first check in Little Bird and thinking about complaining, but then I reminded myself that I live in a country where prices haven't changed since 1960. It puts things into perspective.

As I meticulously inspect my bars before opening, I can't help but reflect on the importance of time management. In my line of work, juggling multiple responsibilities is crucial. It's not just about getting things done, but doing them efficiently. Many people in 9-5 jobs are judged on how quickly they can complete tasks, often under tight deadlines.

Thankfully, in Little Bird, companies can't demand longer hours without paying overtime unless they want to face a lawsuit for overworking and underpaying their workers. Unlike Corporate America, where a profitable quarter might only get you a pizza party, Little Bird values its workers more genuinely. This country isn't driven by the Military-Industrial Complex, and it doesn't act as the world's policeman. We stay out of other countries' affairs unless absolutely necessary. Sometimes, it's better to avoid problems that could worsen with intervention. As the saying goes, "It's better to stay out of something than intervene in something you don't understand."

When the time came to open my three bars, I knew I couldn't be in three places at once, so I hired staff to manage them. Each bar has a maximum capacity to ensure we don't exceed fire safety limits.

On opening day, I was at the first bar I bought. I noticed some patrons bypassed the bar and games, heading straight upstairs to play billiards. They pay a dollar per game, and those tables practically make money on their own. The people of Eastside love sports, and to them, billiards is a serious sport—some even think it should be in the Olympics. With good food, drinks, and a game to play, they tend to stay for a while.

As I walked around, I overheard some customers mentioning that our prices are 20-30 cents cheaper than the previous owner’s. It's always nice to hear positive feedback, especially when it means more business!

Soon, Martha came in with her two sons, my stepbrothers. I initially worried about getting in trouble since the legal drinking age is eighteen, and they’re only seventeen. But since they were with their mother and only drinking soda or water, I knew we were in the clear.

I approached them and said, “Jake, Alex, go play the games behind me.” They did as I asked, and I took Martha upstairs to my office for a chat. I wanted to know why she brought them here, considering they needed to focus on their university applications and aptitude tests.

Before Martha could respond, there was a knock on the door. One of my staff members informed me that some cops were here to speak with whoever was in charge. Their presence was causing quite a stir, and I needed to intervene before things escalated.

The relationship between Eastside and the Empire Police Department has always been tense. Cops showing up in this district tends to put everyone on edge. My girlfriend, who grew up in Eastside, often says that people here won’t hold back in expressing their disdain for the police.

So, I gathered all the essential paperwork. Earlier this week, even though I'm a firefighter and know the building's fire safety codes inside out, I had the fire department and a fire marshal come by for a thorough inspection. It's one of the many roles of the fire department, and these inspections not only keep citizens safe and businesses open but also help firefighters learn about building construction and any special hazards in their district.

If the cops have something to say, I know it’s likely nonsense. I have the bill of sale, the transfer documents, and proof of payment—all the necessary paperwork. If they claim my bar is overcapacity, that's a blatant lie. It's only been twenty minutes since I opened, and there are just 150 people here. The bar's maximum capacity is 1500, so we're well within the limit.

I decided to talk to the cops myself. Long story short, one of them claimed the bar was "overcapacity." I quickly corrected him, explaining that we only had 150 people inside, far from the 1500 maximum. Then he tried to say the bar wasn't "up to fire code." I informed him that it absolutely was, citing the Lieutenant from Engine Co 19 and the Fire Marshal, who both confirmed that with all the sprinklers and fireproof materials, any fire would likely be contained before the first engine company even arrived.

I think the cop expected me to be some clueless, stereotypical hillbilly. But I got a solid education back in the United States, and my IQ is in the 100-110 range. I had all the evidence to prove I own the bar. I suspect I know who sent the cop, but I decided to play along for my own amusement.

That's what I love about the city of Empire. From politicians to corrupt televangelists with outsized egos railing against moral degeneracy, it's a place where everyone has their vices. On the surface, it looks like a normal city, but deep down, everyone craves something, whether it's alcohol or something more sinister. Yes, even I have my vices—pride and wrath.

When the cop claimed my papers were fake and suggested we settle it at the 10th Precinct, I played along. "Sure, let's go down to the precinct and get this all settled."

At the precinct, they brought in the previous owner of the bar. He confirmed that he sold the bar to me, and that the transaction was legal and above board. He even had his retired lawyer verify everything. Despite this, the cops weren't satisfied and called someone from the DA's office to press charges for false ownership paperwork. But even the DA's office confirmed everything was legitimate. They contacted City Hall, which keeps track of business ownership, and verified that I owned the bar.

With all the paperwork in hand, I headed back to the bar, feeling vindicated.

I headed back to my bar, and Martha asked me to help Jake and Alex with their aptitude tests, which they need to complete after receiving their acceptance letters. I let them use my office to go over the tests and fill them out. I kept my thoughts to myself, though I have a gut feeling about how things might turn out.

I suspect Alex might end up having to pay full tuition. He doesn't seem to take his academic studies seriously, and I worry he might treat university like a party school, hanging out with the wrong crowd and potentially getting expelled for missing too many classes or not taking his studies seriously. On the other hand, I have a good feeling about Jake. He might get a half-tuition scholarship or even a full ride.

But for now, I’m keeping these thoughts to myself. They need to focus on their tests, and I don’t want to add any unnecessary pressure. Plus, they don’t know that every Friday there’s a test, and I think it’s best they find that out on their own.

___________

The next day was Medal Day, a day I thought would go by quickly until the celebration. But fate had other plans.

We were called to the roof of a fifty-story high-rise. I put on my harness, and another firefighter secured two carabiners with different ropes to it. The Captain spoke into his radio, “Squad 769 to Command. We got a man coming over the top.”

Was I expecting to perform a rope rescue from the rooftop? Not really. But before I could even think it through, my body was already moving. I found myself at the ledge, harness on, and going over the railing.

As I descended, the reality of the situation hit me. The person below could be terrified, and there was a chance they might panic and jump onto me. That could cause the rope holder to lose control, sending us plummeting several stories before regaining control. Then there was the fire. The person was on the fire floor, but thankfully, the flames hadn't reached their location yet. Still, they were outside the reach of our aerial ladders, making this rescue even more critical.

In moments like these, you have to trust your training and your team. Every second counts, and there's no room for hesitation.

When I was lowered to the floor where the person was, I told him to wait—twice. But my words fell on deaf ears. Out of sheer panic, he jumped onto me, causing us to fall several floors before the team managed to stop us. We slammed into a window.

The guy was in full panic mode. I looked him in the eye and said, “I swear to God, I’ll drop you.” It was enough to get his attention. I grabbed a tool and broke the window, pulling us inside. Once we were safely in, we could hear applause from outside.

I knew I wasn't about to swing around like some female version of Tarzan. Being realistic, I wasn't going to do anything reckless, especially not eighty feet up on the eighth story. I had to avoid putting unnecessary strain on the ropes.

Once the inside team secured the victim I rescued, I got on the radio and reported, “Squad 769-7 to Squad 769 Actual, safely inside.” Even though the Fire Department City of Empire's radio procedure requires addressing the Company Officer by apparatus type, number, and then the officer's number (which is always 1), I kept it straightforward. For general company communication, it's just the company type and number.

My heart was racing after that rescue, but that's the nature of the job. Every day in the Fire Department is different, especially in Squad 769's response area. We deal with tall buildings, cranes, construction sites, and high-profile emergencies like rope rescues.

If my girlfriend, Lusty or Linda, were stationed with me, they'd have plenty of stories too. They've been inside storage tanks, on top of high rises and skyscrapers, underneath bridges, and inside tunnels—basically, anything outside the scope of a normal Engine and Ladder Company. It's a demanding job, but it's what we signed up for, and we face it head-on every day.

We headed back to our apparatus to stow away the rope rescue gear. The Captain asked the Battalion Chief, “Where do you need us, Chief?”

The Battalion Chief replied, “I need two men up on eight to assist Ladder Seventeen, a four and a half inch supply line on ten, and Ladder Fourteen needs additional equipment on eleven.”

I grabbed a Rescue Saw and the Irons, which is a combination of an Axe and Halligan bar. As SOC firefighters, we have specialized vests that allow us to carry extra saw blades and cutting torch rods. These vests add weight, which can slow us down, but they’re essential for the job.

Sometimes I wish I was either my girlfriend or any other family member with a flatter chest than I have bigger breasts but to me it’s more of a pain in the ass than a blessing because to me I do not appreciate the attention they bring her. They get in the way or bounce uncontrollably during athletic activity even though I wear a sports bra and have it tight to make it more not bouncy. I love myself, but not in a narcissistic way. Those types choke on a fragmentation grenade for all I care. I embrace my imperfections because nobody's perfect. Anyone who claims to be can eat a knuckle sandwich.

I can't stand perfectionists. They want everything to be flawless—from their food to their vehicles, even how they make their bed. The last perfectionist I met bragged about making the "perfect" macaroni and cheese. I just told her, "Yeah, so do billions of other people." At first, I thought she was talking about me because of my nickname, "Macaroni." The last person who called me "Mac and Cheese" got their lights knocked out.

Yes, my name is Mackenzie, and while “Mac and Cheese” might be a common nickname, I prefer “Macaroni.” My previous crew, before their tragic deaths, gave me a new nickname: “Frost.” They said it was because I always “Stay Frosty” on the job—calm and alert under pressure.

I think they also chose “Frost” because I’m colder than ice to anyone who tries to mess with me. Or maybe they just liked the movie Aliens. Either way, it’s a nickname that stuck, and I wear it with pride.

As I climbed the stairwell, I couldn’t help but think about the unique culinary tastes of the people in this city. Saying “unique” is putting it lightly. Back in university, I saw people putting mayo, mustard, or ketchup on tacos, and even green beans or peas on cheeseburgers.

When I first arrived here seven years ago, the first thing I saw was someone asking a hot dog vendor for a hot dog with macaroni and cheese on it. At first, I was skeptical, but I gave it a try and found it surprisingly good. This city definitely has its own flavor, and I’ve come to appreciate its quirks.

When I reached the eleventh floor, I said, “Squad 769 here, what do you need?”

They needed a saw, so I handed over the rescue saw I had with me. I kept my thoughts to myself, but I couldn't help thinking that the fire was probably caused by a cigarette. In this country, nearly everyone smokes, much like how it was in many parts of the world until the '80s. Some cultures and populations still have incredibly high smoking rates.

My family members who lived through most of the 20th century often talked about how common smoking was, even inside buildings. It wouldn't surprise me if a careless cigarette was the culprit here.

Some of the routes were inaccessible, so they used the saw to cut through narrow parts of the walls to create new paths. In Little Bird, public schools have shop classes, so I knew these guys had at least basic construction skills. They knew where to cut without hitting electrical wires.

At the fire academy, we're taught to tear down walls to create new routes or to check for hidden fires during salvage and overhaul. This ensures we don't leave any smoldering spots that could reignite later. There have been times when hidden fires have reignited buildings, forcing us to return and fight the fire again.

As I surveyed the scene, I noticed that some of the rubble and debris seemed to be from the twelfth floor, which would take longer to clear. Using the saw to cut through the walls was a different approach, but necessary given the circumstances. There were small fires here and there, but nothing out of control that required multiple teams to handle.

_______________

City Hall, 12:00 PM.

I spotted my dad, stepmom, and stepbrothers in the crowd. They had all come willingly, but I could sense something was off with my dad. He kept glancing away, his face clouded with worry.

“Dad, you okay?” I asked, trying to read his expression.

He sighed deeply, “I saw you hanging off the side of a fifteen-story building on a thin rope. Why didn’t you tell me it was that dangerous?”

I couldn’t help but let out a small, bitter laugh. “What part of my job isn’t dangerous, Dad? Fire suppression, EMS, aircraft rescue, marine rescue, wildland firefighting, hazardous materials... High-angle rescues are just part of the Special Operations Training. We’re trained for this.”

His eyes filled with a mix of fear and frustration. “Do you think it’s easy for me to sleep at night knowing you’re risking your life every day?”

I felt a pang in my chest, memories flooding back. “Do you think it was easy for me to sleep when you were deployed to Panama and the Gulf? I was just a kid, not knowing if my dad was coming home. It’s the same fear, Dad.”

The tension between us was palpable, and my stepmom, Martha, stepped in, her voice gentle but firm. “You both need to understand that this worry is a cycle. Macaroni, you worried about your dad’s safety, and now he’s worrying about yours. It’s hard for both of you.”

Her words hung in the air, a painful reminder of the sacrifices we both made for our careers. The cycle of worry and fear, passed down from one generation to the next.

“What’s the difference? We have the same fear,” my dad said, his voice trembling slightly.

I took a deep breath, trying to keep my emotions in check. “The difference, Dad, is that I’m not getting shot at in Central America or the Middle East. I’m fighting a different kind of war—a war that never ends. I’m battling fires and rescuing people.”

I could see the realization dawning in his eyes. It was a difference, but it didn’t make it any easier. “Fires will never stop, Dad. Even with all the advancements in fire safety and building codes, there will always be someone smoking where they shouldn’t, contractors cutting corners, or Mother Nature sparking wildfires with lightning, droughts, or storms. Someone will always leave a campfire unattended or toss a lit cigarette, and a fire will start. And when that happens, they need someone to fight those fires.”

I paused, letting my words sink in. “Modern buildings might be more fireproof, with better safety features than a century ago, but the need for firefighters will never go away. It’s a war that never ends, and I’m proud to be on the front lines.”

My dad’s eyes softened, and I could see he understood, even if it didn’t make the fear go away. We were both fighting our own battles, and the worry was something we’d have to live with.

As we walked inside, I turned to my dad and said, “You know, the folks over in Emerald Pastor’s are the ones keeping the fire department in business. They need to go back to school. Who in their right mind keeps towels or paper towels next to a stove, leaves a burning cigarette over an open can of paint, or lights up a cigarette in the middle of the night and falls asleep, letting the ashes start a fire? These are the people keeping us busy.”

I could see my dad trying to process what I was saying. “They give stereotypical hillbillies a run for their money,” I continued. “They’re the kind to leave food cooking on the stove and then just walk away.”

Dad tried to defend them, saying, “Keeping food on the stove isn’t that bad.”

I shook my head. “I mean they leave it unattended while it’s still cooking, not just when it’s ready to eat.”

Martha chimed in, “Educated people start fewer fires.”

I sighed. “They’re educated, but they’ve grown up with instant everything—instant communication, instant entertainment, instant orange juice, instant apple juice. They have everything at their fingertips and think that if they’re in trouble, they should just call someone to fix it.”

It was a harsh reality, but one that we faced every day. The cycle of carelessness and dependency kept us on our toes, always ready for the next call.

As we walked inside, I shared with my dad and Martha how ironic it is that the people in my district are actually more careful about fire safety than those in middle-class neighborhoods. When Martha asked about the education level in my district, I explained that nine out of ten people have some form of high school education but didn’t graduate because they had to drop out to help their parents with bills.

Martha then asked what kind of jobs people in my district do. I told her they’re the ones who keep society running. She thought I meant government workers, but I clarified. “I’m talking about sanitation workers, sewer system workers, the people who keep water flowing through the pipes so we can have clean water. They do the dirty, hazardous, and often repulsive jobs that are essential for civilization to function. They’re the ones who are always overlooked.”

My dad and stepmom found it ironic that people without high school diplomas, working thankless jobs that everyone takes for granted, are more fire safety-conscious than those with families, diplomas, or degrees. These folks were raised to handle problems themselves, not call for help at the slightest inconvenience.

I also told them about the city’s fire spree from 1967 to 1995. The hardest-hit districts were Eastside, Westside, and Anderson. The tenement buildings there were built between 1899 and 1914, and the wiring was just as old, leading to many fires.

We made our way inside and headed to the auditorium in City Hall. I noticed Alex looking around like he was lost and out of place, while my dad seemed to be having a nostalgic moment, as if he had stepped back in time.

“All the men here have either a buzz cut or a crew cut,” my dad remarked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

I chose to ignore his comment. The country’s emphasis on uniformity and mandatory military service for men meant that men had to do at least one tour. According to my cousin Dave and my girlfriend Lusty, shorter hair is easier to maintain and makes it simpler for parents to check for ticks. Plus, shorter hair is practical—low-maintenance, hygienic, and safe.

As we walked inside, I thought about telling them how different things are in Little Bird. There, they don’t have a “No Child Left Behind” policy. To graduate, you need to earn the required points to move up to the next grade. There’s no “close enough” – you either make the mark or you don’t. Lusty told me that even if you’re off by one point, you’re held back. It sounds harsh, but just passing students to make the numbers look good isn’t fair either. Lusty believes that by the time students graduate in Little Bird, they’re ready to tackle the world head-on, not just stand around scratching their heads.

I’ve seen debates on the news about lowering graduation requirements, but many people oppose it. They believe lowering standards is setting up for failure. Lusty mentioned that when she graduated high school in 1997, the requirements were tough: twenty-one credits, eighty service hours, and passing Basic Math or Algebra, English, Science, and either Home Economics or Shop. Students had to score at least 80% to pass, and failing meant repeating the year. Dave, my cousin, also opposes lowering standards. To him, making people do less to achieve the same result is just setting them up for failure.

I took my seat at the front, trying to blend into the crowd. The Mayor soon took the stage, launching into a long-winded introduction. Honestly, I wished he’d just skip to the part where he announced the medals and the recipients. I wasn’t expecting to get one, anyway.

As the ceremony dragged on, I found myself zoning out. But then, to my surprise, my name was called. They were giving me a medal for my actions during last year’s oil refinery fire. I never thought I’d be recognized for that. I’ve never been one for medals or accolades; to me, they’re more suited for competitive sports.

But as I walked up to receive the medal, I realized it wasn’t just about the recognition. It was about acknowledging the risks we take and the lives we save. Even if I don’t care for the spotlight.

I get where you’re coming from. I’ve never been one to seek out rewards for just doing my job. It’s what I signed up for, after all. But I know there are folks out there who feel they deserve a pat on the back for the simplest tasks, like making a sandwich or tidying up their bed.

To me, awards make more sense for kids in sports or other activities where they’re pushing themselves and learning new skills. It’s about recognizing effort and growth, not just ticking off everyday chores. But hey, everyone’s different, right? What matters is that we keep doing what we do best, whether or not there’s a medal at the end of the day.

After the Medal Day celebration, I decided to run a quick errand. I visited a few newspaper companies in the city and made sure Alderman Robert Elephant’s shady dealings were exposed all over the papers. I knew the Watersons would be proud of me for taking the high road, letting the public handle it rather than taking matters into my own hands.

It felt good to know I was doing the right thing, even if it meant stepping out of my comfort zone. Sometimes, the best way to fight back is to let the truth come to light and let the masses deal with the fallout.

________________

Back at my apartment, my dad made a beeline for the TV and turned it on. The words “Breaking News” flashed across the screen, grabbing all of our attention. We rushed over to watch.

It was a live news report. Federal agents had Alderman Robert Elephant in cuffs. The reporter listed off a slew of crimes he was suspected of, from siphoning funds from city services, adultery, and finally to creating ghost students for different school districts. In Little Bird, schools are funded through taxes and the government, but in Empire, some schools get $5,500 per student.

Alex, looking confused, asked, “What are ghost students?”

His twin brother Jake explained, “It’s when schools create fake names, genders, and ages for students who don’t exist to get additional money and inflate enrollment.”

I added, “It’s a form of fraud, creating imaginary people for extra funds. The city’s corruption has reached a crisis level.”

Seeing Alderman Elephant in cuffs was a small victory, but it also highlighted the deep-rooted issues we’re facing. It’s a reminder that we need to stay vigilant and keep fighting for what’s right.