25. Dane

Monitors beeped with annoying regularity as nurses and two doctors flowed in and out. We weren't allowed into the room, but Sam, Burton , and I stood just outside, watching as the medical teams worked their craft. If they hadn't pulled the curtains closed, we would've been glued to the window that looked out into the hallway like a first-time father gazing at his wrinkled prune of a newborn.

At least they'd brought us chairs. We sat with our backs to the window, facing the hallway, trying not to trip the staff as they hurried by. Each of us reeked of smoke despite having stripped out of our suits before entering the hospital. I hadn't checked a mirror but was sure my face was even more streaked with soot than either Sam's or Burton 's.

Breaking protocols, shattering years of training, likely violating a dozen orders and codes, I'd run into the flames.

There'd been no thought. No plan. When the bucket revealed only one man, I dropped my line and bolted toward the blaze.

Alex was sprawled across the stairs between the first and second floors. He'd made it out of the building and onto the stairs that wound back and forth up the three-story building's exterior hallway—but the entire third floor had collapsed, dumping debris as he charged down the stairs.

It had taken three tries and every ounce of strength I possessed to free his body and haul him to safety. I only hoped it was enough.

"He's a stubborn bastard. He'll pull through," Sami said, exhaustion thickening her accent.

I grunted but didn't have the energy to move.

We'd been in the hospital for more than four hours. The first three and a half were spent sweating in uncomfortable plastic chairs in the lobby waiting room surrounded by dozens of people who stared as though they wanted to ask why three firefighters were hanging out in a hospital. Most of them looked like they had flu symptoms and should probably be sitting in a doc-in-the-box instead of the ER, but who was I to judge?

The hardest part of sitting there, chairs aside, was that we were still on duty. If a code came in, we'd have to race outside, climb into our suits, and respond to whatever other mayhem this Friday had to offer. Thankfully, drivers on Atlanta's famed perimeter managed to avoid their usual game of bumper cars, and all the old ladies in the city managed to remain upright, at least for a few blessedly quiet hours.

A half-hour ago, doctors came out and reported that Alex was being moved into the ICU and that we could go to that department and await further updates. Hospital procedures didn't allow guests anywhere near the hallway where we now sat, but we were firefighters, first responders, members of the same fraternity as the doctors and nurses who battled for life around us. Hence, we were granted the catbird seat immediately outside Alex's new room.

We would not be allowed in. And I was okay with that. As long as he pulled through …

He had to pull through.

My phone vibrated. I'd forgotten it was even in my pocket. I wriggled it out and flicked the screen to life. There was a string of unread messages.

AJCPatrick: Hey. Are you okay? Please tell me you're not at Monroe Place.

AJC Patrick:Dane, are you there?

AJC Patrick:Oh shit. I see your truck on TV. Please be careful.

AJC Patrick: This is your job. Of course you're careful. I'm an idiot. Be careful anyway.

AJC Patrick:Sorry to sound like a worried lover. I mean, I am worried, and we did … never mind. Just stay safe, okay? Thinking about you.

My heart wanted to surge at the sight of Patrick's messages, but it was impossible to feel good about anything in that moment. Then a volley of uneasy questions battered my foggy mind.

Were we supposed to do something? Had I blown him off?

No, it was the middle of the workday. I was being ridiculous.

I let my head fall back to rest against the wall. A few calming breaths later, I typed:

Me:Hey. It's been a day. I'm at the hospital. One of my guys …

My finger hovered over the keyboard as a boulder lodged in my throat. A wave of nausea swept through me, and I thought my eyes might erupt in a waterfall right there in the hallway.

I was not a crier, dammit. I never cried. I never fucking cried . . .

Well, except for that last time with Patrick. What the hell was this guy doing to me?

The first tear fell onto my screen. I wiped it away with my thumb, leaving a streak to remind me that I wasn't supposed to cry.

Me: … was hurt.

AJCPatrick: Oh wow. Dane, I'm sorry. Were you at the Monroe Place fire?

I was surprised he knew about it, then I remembered he was a reporter. Of course he knew. He probably listened to everything on his scanner.

Me:Yeah.

The dots danced, stilled for a long moment, then danced again.

AJCPatrick: Are you okay? Do you need anything?

Me: I'm good. We're still on duty, so there's not much you can do, but thanks.

AJCPatrick: Should we punt tomorrow? You're not playing softball after this, are you?

Ice gripped my spine, as I shot to my feet.

Softball. My teammates. I knew of two who lived in building two hundred. Hell, Eduardo lived there.

We'd been so consumed with Alex, I'd completely forgotten to ask if any residents had been injured. How could I be so stupid?

Me:Shit. brB.

I shot across the hallway to the nurse's station, slowing to scan the huddled mass of civilians clumped against the fence. None of my teammates jumped out. Crap. My sudden arrival grabbed the attention of every uniformed medic in range.

"Are there any other patients from the fire? Any civilians?" I asked, gasping for breath like I'd just run miles.

An older woman with graying temples and glasses attached to a golden chain around her neck stepped forward. "Honey, take a breath. There were only a few, and they had minor injuries. We treated and released them hours ago."

"Nobody sent to the hospital?"

She shook her head. "No, sweetie."

My chest drooped, as a massive exhale released the air I'd sucked in and was holding while she spoke. "Thanks," I said, turning to resume my watch.

"Let me know if you need anything, hon. Alright?"

I looked back and tried to return her smile. "Thanks. You fix my guy. That's all I need."

"We're doing our best." Her smile didn't waver, something I was sure she'd practiced through decades in scrubs, but I caught a tightness at the corners of her mouth that prickled my skin.

Uncomfortably back in my seat, I typed again.

Me:I think softball guys all made it out okay.

AJCPatrick: Thank god. Are you okay? You never answered.

Me:I'm …

I watched the cursor blink and tried to think of how I should answer. How was I? Was I okay? I'd been cleared physically, but I was rattled as hell, and I wasn't a guy to get rattled. Ever.

The screen grew blurry as my vision clouded. I don't cry, dammit.

Me:… as good as you would expect.

As if sensing an extended moment of calm, my radio crackled to life. "Station Fifty-Four, Engine Four. Vehicle accident. Corner of Roswell Road Northeast and Wieuca Road Northeast. Channel two."

"Fuck me sideways," I muttered, and pinched the bridge of my nose.

"Let's go," Burton said, the authority of age booming in his words. He knew we were hurting. He knew we'd be slow. He stepped up when we couldn't. That's our Burton.

I typed quickly.

Me:F'ing tone. Gotta go. Text later.