Wozniak tries to stand, crumples, and shakes his head. “Get the LT.”
“No way, you’ve got to get up and come with me now.”
“On your radio, Sullivan.”
“Oh, right.” I check the exit with my flashlight. All I can see is smoke, which seems to have conquered the space in seconds. As firefighters we know fire can move faster than humans but it’s awe-inspiring and terrifying to witness it up close.
“Lieutenant, this is Sullivan. Can you hear me?”
“Copy, Sullivan. You okay?”
“Ceiling came in on us, we’ve got a smoker, and Wozniak is down.”
“Unconscious?” He sounds so calm.
“No, but he’s …” I shake his arm because his eyes are closed but he doesn’t appear to be out. “Breathe, Wozniak.” I check his air gauge. Fuck, it’s at zero. How could it be at zero? Is the tank damaged? “I think he’s out of air and we’re blocked.”
“Which floor?”
“Second.”
“On my way.”
“Copy that.”
I give Wozniak another shake and his eyes flutter open. Another tap of his gauge. “Are you getting any air?”
His head turns back and forth. “Must be faulty.”
Still no sign of Roman.
“Can you stand?”
I help him up and place an arm under his, guiding him along a few inches. We step over smoking debris, though really I step over it. Wozniak is dragging, and I suspect he might have hit his head. He slumps against me, practically pinning me to the wall. The smoke is thicker here and he’s running out of air.
Roman, where the hell are you?
Time seems to be slowing down because there’s no sign of the cavalry. But the heavier smoke tells me that time is also marching on relentlessly, that contrary bitch. That’s the last time I wish for more variety in the callouts.
I need to take action. I whip off Wozniak’s mask and slip off the breathing apparatus. If there’s no air, it’s just another weight he can’t afford. I place my mask over his face and seal it.
Breathe. I think it rather than say it as I want to hold onto my own breath for as long as I can.
His eyes flutter as nature takes its course, his body’s impulse to inhale kicks in, and the air hits his lungs.
“Abby! Call out!”
I’ve never been so glad to hear another person’s voice. “We’re here!”
Roman appears like a golden god in a haze of smoke. It takes him all of two seconds to assess the situation, given that I’m tethered to my crew-mate. I’ve still got my SCBA tank on my back and Woz is breathing through my mask.
“Put your mask back on, then head to the exit,” Roman barks.
“But he needs air and—” I cough because now I’m inhaling black smoke, absent oxygen.
“Now, Abby.” He pulls the mask off Woz and shoves it in my hands. “That’s an order.”
I do as he says, gasping at the precious air from my SCBA as the mask is resealed. Woz is more alert now, and Roman takes over supporting him. Before I strike out, I pick up Woz’s tank, the one I relieved him of earlier when I thought we’d have to fight our way out of there.
I move on ahead, feeling as though I’m pushing through a physical wall of smoke though it’s really just that: smoke. I’m trying not to inhale while it makes my eyes itch and water, even with the mask. Too long without it, I suppose. I look behind, my chest flashing in panic because I can’t see them. But then Roman’s there, a beacon in the dark, and I realize it’s going to be okay.
Gavin the EMT takes a look at my eyes. “You feeling better?”
I nod, not wanting to speak because I know my scratchy throat will hurt.
“Gav, give us a second.”
Roman is at his shoulder, a tower of strength that I wouldn’t mind sinking into now. He’s mad at me. I talked back in there and that’s a no-no during a working fire. During any time. Gavin winks at me, like I’m going to be okay and the big bad boss isn’t going to remove my intestines and string me up by them. I know better.
With Gavin out of my sightline, I peer up at my lieutenant and boy, I like what I see. All that hot, scowly, alpha business that really shouldn’t be attractive when the anger is directed at you, but what can I say? Women, we are complicated.
“I specifically ordered you to re-mask and leave and you give me your opinion?”
“Wozniak was stuck and—”
“And it was my job to get him out. Not yours. You’re a fucking candidate, Abby, and there is a chain of command. I make the assessment and you follow orders. How is this hard?”
“It’s not. It was just an instinctive reaction.”
“Like giving him your air?” His voice changes to low and measured. There’s anger there, but also genuine concern. I feel like a kid being taken to task by one of my parents—my father, actually, which isn’t how I want to think of Roman.
Daddy issues, clean up in aisle five.
“He seemed to be concussed, his air was out. Was I supposed to leave him there and come find you?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it again. It evidently costs him dearly not to be able to respond with a comeback that fits his narrative.
Finally he gruffs out, “I’ll be talking to that fucker about his equipment. Where is it?”
I point at the tank behind me. Roman picks it up, fiddles with the regulator, stares at the gauge for a couple of long, painful seconds, then lays it on the bed of the ambulance.
He inhales deeply. He’s still angry but I don’t think it’s with me anymore. I’d hate to be in Wozniak’s shoes when Roman goes off on him, concussion or not.
“Get on the truck. We’re heading back to the house.”
He turns his back on me and I feel worse than I did ten minutes ago when the smoke burned through my nostrils and down my throat.
Seventeen
Abby
Back at the firehouse, we jump off the fire truck and start the strip down.
“Wozniak, my office, now,” Roman barks out.
Full of sympathy, everyone looks at the guy who is about to get reamed. I touch his arm. “Good luck.”
There’s a Band-Aid over his eye, and while I had thought he was concussed during the fire, it turns out he’s fine. Just winded, which probably means he’s not in great physical shape.
“Thanks,” he says to me. “And you know, thanks for what you did back there. You shouldn’t have had to. I checked that equipment.”
Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. In the few weeks I’ve been here, he’s the one most likely to screw around and cut corners. He left me cleaning that truck, and as much as I tried to cover it’s obvious that Roman has his number.
He hangs up his turnout gear, then follows the lieutenant with his head dipped.
Tyler nudges my shoulder. “You okay?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I feel okay, but I also feel like I really messed up. I just couldn’t leave him there without any air.”
“You sure about that?” Gage’s tone is drier than a James Bond martini.