the box with Calvin’s SCBA gear. He washed the tank and straps a nd made sure the mask was as clear as glass. After taking the tank back to refill it, he carried it with him into the locker room . He pulled the clothes out of Calvin’s locker and folded them, putting them in the bottom of the box, and placing Calvin’s personal items on top. The keys to the Bronco he placed in his pocket, as he was like to have to drive it over to his house later. Then he hung up the SCBA gear inside the locker and left the door open so that the straps could air dry.
He next carried the box into the office that was shared by the four shift leads and walked over to Calvin’s desk, clearing all of the personal items off of it and out of the drawers. Chris then took a pad of paper and itemized everything he had in the box per departmental procedure. After sitting the box to the side on the floor, he sat with his elbows on the edge of the desk and stared at the pile of folders on one corner, knowing that they were men and women who had applied for a position at the new firehouse.
Cleaning Calvin’s gear, clearing out his locker and his desk, Chris had done it all on autopilot. Except for that moment as he’d be en about to clean hi s helmet, he’d forced himself not to think. Not to feel. Just to act. Just do the job that needed to be done because that was the only way he could get through it. He knew, of course, that business—that life—had to go on without Calvin, but looking at the pile and thinking that the responsibility was now his almost felt like a betrayal.
Like he was trying to pretend Calvin had never existed.
Which was stupid. At thirty-six years of age, he knew better. It wasn’t like him to think illogically because of how he was feeling. Despite the wildness of his teenage years, he’d long prided himself as always keeping a level head and being one of the most rational people in a group. So he was at a loss to explain why doing yet another job that needed to be done made him feel like he was dishonoring Calvin’s memory—when in fact, taking over the job Cal had started out on was the best way he could honor his friend.
The heart knows reason which reason does not know .
Chris frowned, then smiled and shook his head. Trust his grandfather’s timeless wisdom to return to him when he needed it the most. It was one of the reasons he loved the old man so much—he always seemed to have the right words. He made a mental note to make time to get back to the reservation and see him soon and reached for the first folder on the pile.
Six
Martie sat at one of the round tables in the dining room with the other four members of Chris’s platoon. The men from A Platoon and the volunteers filling in for Calvin and Chris had all moved out into the garage to give them some privacy.
Whether by accident or design, Rick, Terry, Logan and Football appeared to have glued themselves together—they were like a big block of muscle, ha ving moved their chairs to face her instead of sitting evenly around the table. Perhaps they were just making a statement of solidarity, perhaps they thought to intimidate her. If that were the case, then they were in for a surprise, as growing up in her family (which was full of cops, firemen, lawyers, doctors, and the occasional Mafia hitman —or so the rumor went) had given Martie quite the backbone. No man had ever intimidated her, and she wasn’t about to let these four break that record.
As with Chris, she pulled out a digital voice recorder and asked them if they minded being recorded. They all agreed. This recorder was, of course, one of her spares, as she’d left the one she normally used with Chris the night before. He hadn’t mentioned it or given it back to her yet, but she was okay with waiting. Hopefully the reason was because the words she had spoken in her message meant something to him. They had certainly meant a lot to her.
Beginning the interview, she asked each
He next carried the box into the office that was shared by the four shift leads and walked over to Calvin’s desk, clearing all of the personal items off of it and out of the drawers. Chris then took a pad of paper and itemized everything he had in the box per departmental procedure. After sitting the box to the side on the floor, he sat with his elbows on the edge of the desk and stared at the pile of folders on one corner, knowing that they were men and women who had applied for a position at the new firehouse.
Cleaning Calvin’s gear, clearing out his locker and his desk, Chris had done it all on autopilot. Except for that moment as he’d be en about to clean hi s helmet, he’d forced himself not to think. Not to feel. Just to act. Just do the job that needed to be done because that was the only way he could get through it. He knew, of course, that business—that life—had to go on without Calvin, but looking at the pile and thinking that the responsibility was now his almost felt like a betrayal.
Like he was trying to pretend Calvin had never existed.
Which was stupid. At thirty-six years of age, he knew better. It wasn’t like him to think illogically because of how he was feeling. Despite the wildness of his teenage years, he’d long prided himself as always keeping a level head and being one of the most rational people in a group. So he was at a loss to explain why doing yet another job that needed to be done made him feel like he was dishonoring Calvin’s memory—when in fact, taking over the job Cal had started out on was the best way he could honor his friend.
The heart knows reason which reason does not know .
Chris frowned, then smiled and shook his head. Trust his grandfather’s timeless wisdom to return to him when he needed it the most. It was one of the reasons he loved the old man so much—he always seemed to have the right words. He made a mental note to make time to get back to the reservation and see him soon and reached for the first folder on the pile.
Six
Martie sat at one of the round tables in the dining room with the other four members of Chris’s platoon. The men from A Platoon and the volunteers filling in for Calvin and Chris had all moved out into the garage to give them some privacy.
Whether by accident or design, Rick, Terry, Logan and Football appeared to have glued themselves together—they were like a big block of muscle, ha ving moved their chairs to face her instead of sitting evenly around the table. Perhaps they were just making a statement of solidarity, perhaps they thought to intimidate her. If that were the case, then they were in for a surprise, as growing up in her family (which was full of cops, firemen, lawyers, doctors, and the occasional Mafia hitman —or so the rumor went) had given Martie quite the backbone. No man had ever intimidated her, and she wasn’t about to let these four break that record.
As with Chris, she pulled out a digital voice recorder and asked them if they minded being recorded. They all agreed. This recorder was, of course, one of her spares, as she’d left the one she normally used with Chris the night before. He hadn’t mentioned it or given it back to her yet, but she was okay with waiting. Hopefully the reason was because the words she had spoken in her message meant something to him. They had certainly meant a lot to her.
Beginning the interview, she asked each
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