THE FIRST PERSON WHO SAW ME WAS JASON MILLER
Jason was washing soot from the side of Engine 7.
He looked up.
Saw the balloons.
Then froze.
Normally Jason would shout something obnoxious.
Instead, he turned off the hose.
“Claire?”
“Surprise.”
His face did not change.
I looked toward the station kitchen.
“Where’s the birthday boy?”
Jason glanced behind him.
That movement was small.
But I noticed.
“Jason?”
Before he could answer, another firefighter walked out.
Then another.
Their uniforms were dirty.
More than usual.
Black soot along sleeves.
One man had a torn knee.
A medic bag sat open on the floor.
My stomach tightened.
“You guys had a call.”
Nobody answered.
Of course they had.
They were firefighters.
But there was something about the way everyone stood.
Like people in a room after a glass breaks.
Waiting to see who moves first.
I tightened my fingers around the cake.
“Where’s Adrian?”
Then Captain Marcus Hale came out of his office.
Marcus was fifty-two.
Calm under pressure.
Nearly impossible to surprise.
He had known Adrian since his probationary year.
He had also known me long enough to tell when lying would be useless.
The moment he saw me, his face changed.
“Claire.”
Not good.
I walked toward him.
“Where’s Adrian?”
Marcus looked at the cake.
Then at the balloons.
Then back at me.
“Why don’t you put those down?”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“No.”
“Claire.”
“Where is my husband?”
Marcus held out his hands.
“Give me the cake.”
“Marcus.”
His voice softened.
“Please.”
I let him take it.
Not because I wanted to.
Because suddenly my hands weren’t working correctly.
The balloons pulled upward from my wrist.
I looked around the station.
Adrian’s boots weren’t near his locker.
His turnout coat was missing.
His truck was parked outside.
My voice became very small.
“Is he alive?”
Marcus answered immediately.
“Yes.”
I nearly collapsed.
He caught my elbow.
“Yes, Claire. He’s alive.”
I closed my eyes.
Then opened them again.
“Where?”
“At Bellmere Regional Trauma Center.”
“What happened?”
Marcus looked toward his crew.
“Sit down.”
“No.”
“Claire—”
“Tell me.”
He exhaled slowly.
“There was a residential fire near Hawthorne Street.”
I knew the neighborhood.
Old houses.
Narrow lots.
A lot of families.
Marcus continued:
“Two-story home. Heavy smoke when we arrived.”
“Adrian?”
“He was inside.”
My mouth went dry.
“Obviously.”
“Second floor partially collapsed.”
The room tilted.
I grabbed the edge of a table.
Marcus reached for me again.
I pulled away.
“How bad?”
“He was conscious when the ambulance left.”
Not an answer.
“Marcus.”
“He has burns on one arm. Possible fractured ribs. Smoke exposure.”
I stared.
“Possible?”
“They were still evaluating him.”
I grabbed my purse.
“I’m going.”
Marcus moved in front of me.
“I’ll drive.”
“I can drive.”
“No.”
“Marcus—”
“Your hands are shaking.”
I looked down.
He was right.
