Things You Save in a Fire - Katherine Center Page 0,34

have done a spit take. “Our radios don’t work?”

“Some days are better than others.” Then he shrugged. “Built by the lowest bidder.”

Here was the upside: The captain was joking when he told me to find him two thousand dollars, but I could actually do that. I’d written a bunch of grant proposals for our firehouse in Austin. I’d gotten us a snazzy new gear-drying rack, a top-of-the-line exhaust removal system for the engine bays, and a “community relations” grant to landscape our side yard and install picnic tables made of recycled plastic.

And this station—all due respect—could use a few picnic tables.

To say the least.

I’m not saying I wanted to go crazy. I knew better than to march in as a newbie with flower vases and throw pillows. But working radios? Cyanide kits? Those things weren’t frivolous—they were essential.

I found myself Googling “firefighter grants” on my phone instead of sleeping, for my own safety, if nothing else. But I also started wondering if raising money for the station might be my way of creating a place for myself there. If I could help them get things they needed, maybe that would raise my value.

Off the top of my head, I could list a hundred things this station could use: a fresh coat of paint, new self-contained breathing apparatuses, air masks with radios embedded instead of handheld radios, new mattresses, central air, a motorized hose wheel or two, new lockers, a new washer-extractor for bunker gear, and a new hydraulic cutter—or several.

It was a good start.

The second problem keeping me awake was the course out back.

It really was too tall for me. Half the structures there were going to be hard for me to reach—and the other half were going to be impossible. It was set up with two identical runs side by side, and guys had told me they didn’t just “do” the course twice a year, they held massive high-stakes competitions, with full bragging rights going to the winner—and the opposite, I supposed, going to the loser.

I knew one thing for sure. I needed to figure out how to ace that course. Not losing, at the very least—but I wouldn’t say no to winning.

But I couldn’t just grow taller.

I was going to have to get creative.

I started thinking about something the guys used to do back in Austin called parkour. It was a way of running, leaping, climbing, and vaulting through the city as if it were a giant playground. They used to watch videos on techniques around the table in the kitchen.

I Googled it on my phone, and sure enough there were hundreds of videos breaking down techniques.

Like, you really can run up the side of a wall, if you know the right angle to approach and then how to tilt your body. And if you’ve got three surfaces at right angles and you do it right, you can use momentum and positioning to just leapfrog up to a second story.

Watching the videos was mesmerizing, and I stayed awake far too long, watching one clip after another of people doing impossible things with ease—and then showing everybody else how to do them, too.

I could stand to learn a few impossible things.

A new hobby. Not exactly crochet, but it would have to do.

For a morning spent lying in bed, it was remarkably productive.

A way to make myself useful to the crew? Check.

A way to conquer the course? Check.

Then there was my third problem. Which was, of course, the rookie.

And as for the rookie?

I closed my tired eyes. Maybe that answer couldn’t be found on Google. Maybe I’d just have to figure that answer out for myself.

Twelve

SETTLING IN AT the station was both easier and harder than I’d expected.

Over the next few shifts, I noticed a few important things about the crew.

One: They insisted on treating me like a lady. Sort of. To the extent that they could remember to.

In a way, this was a good thing. It wasn’t the blistering hatred that Captain Harris had led me to expect. It was still a problem, though. They wouldn’t curse in front of me, for example. I’d walk into a room just as Tiny was saying, “What the fuck?” and he’d duck his head, guilty, and change it to “frick.”

“You can say ‘fuck,’ Tiny,” I’d say.

But then he’d scold me. “Watch your mouth.”

“Stop treating me like a girl!”

“You are a girl.”

I couldn’t shift anyone’s thinking. Curse words were not for females. Same for bawdy conversations, bodily functions, and jokes in general. Case