Chapter 1 

Elena 

I used to think fire and I spoke in a secret dialect. When I was a rookie I could walk into a blaze and recognize the tone of each crackle, the pitch of every groan in the walls. That quick hiss, oil overheating. That dull metallic ping, a beam beginning to fail. Once the sound made sense, the fear never caught up to me. Lately all I hear is static, and every whisper of heat feels like a curse spelled in a language I no longer understand.

The tones drop at 02:17. 

“Engine twenty-seven, Ladder fourteen, Battalion eleven, report of a kitchen fire, West One Thirty-Fourth.”

The dispatcher’s voice slices through the bunkroom, and muscle memory drags me upright before my brain even registers the words. Boots, bunker pants, suspenders up, coat, gloves half on. My helmet waits on the hook at the bay doors, black shell chipped at the brim and edges. The scorch marks once felt like trophies. Now they feel like stitches holding something broken together.

Outside, Harlem wears a January frost thick enough to crunch under our tires. Streetlights glow the color of weak tea. We roll out of the house and the siren sings over the hush of a neighborhood that never fully sleeps. I sit in the rear jump-seat, nozzle in my lap, Alvarez beside me counting under his breath. He does that when adrenaline hits: counts down instead of up, as if the call will end faster that way.

He tips his chin. “You good, Ramos?” “Peachy,” I say. That lie is automatic. Easier than explaining the tremor in my right hand.

The address is a skinny brownstone wedged between a bodega and an all-night locksmith. Thin smoke curls from a third-floor window, gray rather than black. Grease fire, probably. Somebody nodded off in front of a late snack, nothing we can’t knock down in two minutes flat. I tell myself that while we hump the line up narrow stairs that smell like stale beer and bleach.

Mask on, regulator clipped, air hisses against my face. Door three-B swings open and hot vapor pushes out. Flames dance on a forgotten skillet, licking cabinet doors. A grandmother in powder-blue pajamas fans uselessly with a dish towel.

“Ma’am, stand behind us,” I say through my voice amp. “We’ll put it out.”
She clutches a wooden rosary, eyes shining with smoke tears. I angle her behind Alvarez who opens the nozzle to a fog pattern. Water meets fire with a violent hiss. Two sweeps and the worst is a scorched backsplash.

Easy. Controlled. Except the heat against my visor triggers a film reel I cannot stop.

Suddenly I am not inside a brownstone kitchen. I am back at the Jamaica Avenue warehouse, daylight bleeding orange through corrugated tin. Malik kneels next to a sealed exit, Halligan in hand, grinning wide even with his mask on.
“We got this, E,” he says.
Then the roof groans, the way a piano string snaps under too much tension.
I hear it again now, louder than the present, louder than the hiss of steam in front of me. My knees lock. The hose jerks in my grip. For a second I taste burning insulation and melted plastic filter through my mask, even though the air tank feeds me purified O₂.

“Ramos,” Alvarez says, voice smooth but firm, “fan pattern left, you’re drifting.”
I blink. The brownstone returns. Cabinets askew, floor wet, smoke thinning. Malik is not here. My lungs forget how to breathe anyway.

We finish ventilating, kill the breaker, and hand the grandmother to EMS for a quick check. She kisses the back of my glove like I just dragged her from a four-alarm. Her gratitude hums in my ears like static.

Outside, Captain Reed waits beside the rig, arms folded across a turnout coat older than some of the probies. Frost clings to his silver sideburns. His gaze, though, runs hotter than any stovetop.

“Office when we get back,” he says. No bark, no shout, just iron certainty. I nod, peel my mask, and look anywhere but at the reflection in the visor.

Reed’s office reeks of burnt coffee and wintergreen gum. Graffiti scratches across the metal desk, initials layered over initials so deep the surface looks like a topographical map. Malik’s carve marks sit near the center: M.A. + E.R. He swore the plus was a joke, not a confession. I never called him on that lie.

The captain leans forward, elbows braced, thick fingers laced so tight the knuckles blanch. “You froze tonight.”

“I hesitated,” I answered, voice steady even while my pulse trips. “Half a second, tops.”

“One heartbeat too long,” he says, softer than anger. “Inside a fire, half a second is a lifetime.”

The pity in his eyes slices deeper than any reprimand. He pushes a pamphlet across the desk. First Responder Trauma Recovery – St. Luke’s Hospital. Tuesday, nineteen hundred hours. Group therapy.

“Mandatory,” he adds. “Non-negotiable.”
I know better than to argue. Reed never pulls rank unless he worries someone will end up dead. Usually that someone is the person he is saving from themself.

I swallow the temptation to shrug. “Yes, Captain.”
Something in my tone twists his mouth. Regret, maybe. Fear, more likely. “You are one of the best line firefighters I have ever led,” he says. “Do not make me write another condolence letter.”

The word another echoes inside my ribs. I stand before he can see the shake roll through my shoulders. Outside the office, the hallway feels colder than the January night.

Shift change drags me into daylight. I ride the A train to Brooklyn with my hood pulled low, bunker bag at my feet. Straphangers give me a respectful bubble. Soot still smudges my collar. More than once, a kid points, eyes wide. Future firefighter maybe. I want to tell them heroism tastes like bile and insomnia, but I am too tired to break their dream.

The bakery beneath my apartment floods the block with cinnamon cardamom heaven. Usually I inhale and picture my mom’s Sunday morning sweet bread. Today the smell roils my stomach. I shoulder past the display window, up the stairs, into unit 2C where last night’s mail waits like an ambush. Rent statement, water bill, a sympathy card from Malik’s mother postmarked three months ago. I shove everything onto the kitchen counter and flip on the overhead light. It flickers twice before holding steady.

The skillet on my stove still carries ash scuffs from the warehouse fire. I ought to toss it. I cannot make myself move. Instead I run a fingertip over the soot and study the smear on my skin until my eyes blur.

I shower until the water pounds my back raw. Steam fogs the mirror and I trace Malik’s initials through condensation before wiping them off with the heel of my hand. Soft curls spring free from the bun I shoved under my helmet, and I regret not grabbing the conditioner. My reflection looks older than thirty-one. Too many nights on too little sleep chisel hollows under my brown eyes.

By noon the apartment grows claustrophobic. I pace, attempt coffee, burn the first pot, pour it out, try again. The smell of bitter grounds coats my tongue. I carry the mug to the living room where bookcases groan under plaques. Unit Citation, Medal of Valor nomination, Rookie of the Year. Photographs jam every shelf. One shows Malik and me the night we finished Probationary School, arms slung over each other’s turnout coats, helmets askew, faces flushed with a mix of exhaustion and unkillable joy.

I turn that frame face down. The thud of it meeting wood feels like a bone breaking.

At fifteen hundred hours Mama calls.

“You at the firehouse, mija?”
“No, home,” I say. I do not mention the cold sweat chilling my spine or the fact I have not slept in twenty-seven hours.

“You gotta rest those pretty eyes,” she scolds. “I made caldo de pollo. Come by, I will send some home with you.”
“I can’t, Mama. Overtime,” I lie. “Captain’s got me on a paperwork project.”
Paperwork. She snorts. “Used to be you inhaled my soup like oxygen.”
“I still do, promise.” My voice cracks still.

She hears it. Mamas always hear it. “Tell me the truth, Elena. Has the department provided counseling?” Guilt scrapes my ribs. “They just assigned me to a group.” “Go. Do the work. You cannot out-run grief.” “Maybe I can do push-ups faster than that.” Weak joke. Mama’s silence tells me it lands flat.  “Come Sunday,” she says. “I will save you the biggest thigh piece.”
“Love you,” I whisper.  “More than air,” she replies. It has been our sign-off since kindergarten when I told her I loved recess more than breathing.

After the call I sink onto the futon. Evening slides across the ceiling in slow stripes. Sirens weave through the city pulse. I tell myself they belong to someone else. Another company. Another kitchen fire. Not my problem. The lie curdles before it finishes forming.

Night again, insomnia prowling. I scroll endless articles on survivor’s guilt. Top ten coping mechanisms. Yoga. Box breathing. Journaling. None mention seeing your best friend every time you close your eyes. I close the laptop and stare out the window. My building faces Atlantic Avenue. Cars blur under the streetlights like comets. I imagine Malik in one, riding shotgun, elbow out, humming off-key. The vision hurts worse than the memory.

I go to the fridge, yank it open, slam it shut. No groceries. I have not cooked a real meal in eight months. Malik used to watch me burn pasta and tease, “How can a firefighter let water boil over?” He would stir sauce while I practiced knotting my ropes on the kitchen chair. We were ridiculous, inseparable. Now my wrists itch to practice knots just to feel busy. Instead I pace again, counting steps between couch and door, thirty-three each way.

Sunlight drags itself over the horizon. I brew another pot of coffee that tastes like pennies. Shower again. Put on jeans, a faded FDNY tee, a puffy vest, and tuck my curls into a knit cap. Before leaving, I open a drawer, lift a thin gold band off a chain. Malik bought it at a pawn shop, said one day he would kneel, not yet but soon. We were going to blow our savings on Iceland tickets first. I slide the ring onto my thumb. It rests against the knuckle like a question mark.

My phone pings. Captain Reed.
Group therapy tomorrow is nineteen hundred. Attendance recorded.
No greeting, no signature. Orders are simpler than condolences.

I shove the phone into my pocket, step onto the landing. The bakery lady downstairs greets me with a smile. “Morning hero, sweet bun on the house.”
“Another time,” I say, though her kindness softens something tight behind my sternum.

Outside the cold sears my cheeks. I walk aimlessly down the Atlantic until the skyline opens like a jaw. Manhattan across the river looks golden in sunrise, daring me to believe in fresh starts. My legs carry me toward the ferry pier before my mind catches up. Malik and I loved the Staten Island ferry: free, windy, smelling like diesel and possibility. I buy a coffee from a cart, lean on the railing, and watch gulls squabble over bagel crumbs.

A paramedic in navy blues jogs by, nods at my tee. “Stay safe, sister.”
I lift the cup in salute. The words tangle inside my throat. My mouth remembers smoke too easily. Speech feels costly.

Background check, the version I practice in my head for psychologists:

Name: Elena Marisol Ramos.
Age: Thirty-one.
Birthplace: Lincoln Hospital, Bronx. July tenth, ninety-four, during that blackout when the AC units died and the nurses fanned babies with newspapers.
Family: Two brothers. One officer with the NYPD, one charter school teacher. Mama sells life insurance with the voice of a saint and the negotiator skills of a shark.
Education: SUNY Albany, switched from criminal justice to fire science after watching Ladder twenty-four tear open a roof on my block. Felt the roar in my bones and thought, I need to be that brave.
Distinguishing habits: Humming old jazz standards under my mask when visibility drops. Cracking knuckles before pushing a line. Thanking hydrants with a two-finger salute after every knockdown. That last one is my grandpa’s superstition.
Strengths: Fast on stairs, spatial memory sharp as a scalpel, voice calm enough to cut through chaos.
Weaknesses: Survivor’s guilt the size of Manhattan. Occasional freeze response triggered by corrugated metal ceilings. Insomnia is so bad I have started naming the cabs that pass my window between two and five AM.
Goal: Make it through one shift without Malik’s laughter echoing between my ears.

I never get past the goal part before the tears threaten. Then I reset, swallow hard, and try again.

By late afternoon I wind up in Prospect Park, sneakers crunching last week’s snow. Kids sled on the hill near the boathouse, shrieking delight. I sit on a bench, breath clouding the air. Metal slats steal whatever warmth my body has left. I listen to a father’s voice urging his daughter to keep her mittens on. It hits me how small losses ripple for years. Gloves today, courage tomorrow. Malik used to say heroes are made of tiny choices stacked like bricks. Maybe grief works the same way, a million splinters building a coffin around your heart.

An older woman walks her dog past. The terrier yaps at a squirrel and she laughs. The sound feels so alive it bruises me. I press fists into my coat pockets until my nails leave crescents in my palms. One breath after another. In, out, count to four. Malone taught me that trick the first semester at the academy. Funny how the exercises that keep you calm inside a flashover barely dent panic in a park.

I head home before dusk. The bakery smell is stronger now, butter sugar cinnamon, but nostalgia tastes dangerous so I keep my gaze on the stairs. In the apartment I flip the picture of Malik and me upright then instantly regret it but leave it there. Ash skillet still sits on the stove. I reach for it, think about scrubbing until metal shines. Instead I grab two takeout menus, toss them in the trash, and wipe dust off the cutting board. Baby steps, perhaps.

Night settles like a cat, silent, heavy, impossible to ignore. I set an alarm for tomorrow for six hundred hours even though I am off duty. Routine keeps the shadows in their corners. I curl on the futon with my grandfather’s quilt, phone buzzing every so often with station group chat jokes. I do not open them. My eyes drift to the blank TV screen. In the reflection my silhouette looks like someone else, shoulders hunched, head bowed. Malik used to prod me in the arm, chin lifted, smile flaring. “Bigger spine, Ramos.” I straighten now just a fraction.

I toss the phone onto the coffee table. It buzzes, vibrates off the edge, clacks on the floorboards. I leave it there. Instead I open Notes app on my tablet and stare at a blank page. Finally I type:

I think I am still on fire, and nobody can smell the smoke but me.

I save the file, close the tablet, let my head drop back. Sirens wail somewhere near Atlantic Avenue. My pulse matches the rhythm, steady for once. The ring on my thumb glints, catching the dim lamp light. I roll it against my knuckle, feel the metal cool and true.

Tomorrow I will sit in a fluorescent lit basement with strangers and peel scabs off wounds I have pretended were scars. The day after I might walk into an abandoned kitchen at midnight chasing some reckless rumor of catharsis. Both prospects scare me more than any five-alarm blaze.

Fear still counts as feeling alive. Malik believed that. So do I, at least tonight.

I glance at the window. Snow starts to fall in slow lazy spirals. A hush settles over the Atlantic, muting the city to a low hum. I draw in a breath that tastes like cold and possibility. Let it out steady. For the first time since those distant days, the twist of nerves curling inside me loosens by a single thread.

I whisper into the quiet, “I survived that fire. I can survive tonight.”
The room does not answer, yet the radiator pipes clink like distant applause. 

My phone lights again, this time with a notification from Captain Reed. Update, therapy group relocated to shared session with civilian survivors. Expect cross-talk, keep uniform optional. Beneath it the unknown number sends a final message. Therapy saves minds, heat tests hearts. Which one do you want more? I stare at both screens and realize Thursday’s invitation is beginning to sound like the more honest kind of pain.