It was me in there( 9-1-1 )

The Rescue

The firetruck roared through the streets, its sirens slicing through the hum of late afternoon traffic. Inside the cab, the mood was tense but familiar. The team had done this hundreds of times—too many to count—but the weight of the unknown always hung in the air, settling into the space between adrenaline and dread.

Buck leaned his head against the cool metal of the seat, staring out of the window as the city blurred past in a streak of gray and red. The dispatcher's voice still echoed in his ears: "Residential fire. Reports of people trapped inside. Multiple victims, unknown injuries."

Bobby turned slightly in his seat at the front of the cab, his voice cutting through the hum of the engine. "Listen up. Two-story residential, fire reported in the kitchen and spreading fast. Neighbors say there are kids inside. Chimney stack collapse last year means the structure might already be compromised, so watch your footing. This one's going to be quick and dangerous."

"Understood," Eddie said, his tone calm, steady.

Buck glanced at Eddie across the bench, his partner's voice grounding him in a way he couldn't quite explain. Eddie's hand rested on his knee, fingers tapping out a rhythm only Eddie seemed to hear. It wasn't much, but it was enough. A quiet, unspoken reminder: I'm here. We've got this.

Across from them, Hen adjusted her helmet and muttered under her breath, "Kids in a fire. It never gets easier."

"Yeah," Chimney said, his usual sarcasm absent. "Let's hope it's just bad intel."

Bobby's sharp gaze swept over the team. "No assumptions. Focus. We go in, we get them out, we come back safe. That's the priority."

Buck nodded along with the others, but his chest tightened at the words. Kids inside. It always hit harder than it should, though he could never quite explain why. He shook the thought away, forcing himself to focus on the present—the distant wail of the sirens, the hum of the tires on the road, the rhythmic tapping of Eddie's fingers.

The truck jostled as Bobby took a sharp turn, weaving through the chaos of cars pulling to the side. The faint scent of smoke hit Buck's nose, carried on the breeze through the open vent. It was a smell he knew too well—sharp and acrid, the kind that lingered on your clothes and in your mind long after the fire was gone.

"Two minutes out," Bobby called.

The air in the cab shifted, the tension growing thicker as they approached the scene. Chim checked his gear one last time, his movements methodical. He glanced at Buck. "You good?"

Buck forced a quick smile. "Always."

Hen raised an eyebrow, not buying it, but she didn't say anything.

As they crested the final hill, the fire came into view. Flames clawed at the second story of a modest home, black smoke billowing into the sky like an ominous signal. A crowd of neighbors had gathered on the sidewalk, their faces pale and anxious, their murmurs blending into a low hum of fear.

"Alright," Bobby said, his voice sharp and commanding. "Eddie, Buck, you're on search and rescue. Chim, Hen, hose team. Let's move."

The truck screeched to a halt, and Buck's boots hit the pavement before the motion had fully stopped. The heat of the fire was palpable, even from a distance, radiating in waves that prickled against his skin. He grabbed his gear and fell into step beside Eddie, their movements synchronized like they always were.

"This one's bad," Eddie muttered under his breath.

Buck nodded. "Let's make it quick."

As they approached the house, a young woman stumbled toward them, her face streaked with soot and tears. She was barefoot, her clothes singed at the edges, and she clutched at Bobby's arm with trembling hands.