PRELUDE

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(22 August)

The boy had been about eight years old.

He had a thick head of sandy-colored hair and a smattering of freckles. When Mike had lifted him from the floor of the playroom, his limpness had been alarming and telling: it was recovery, not rescue, for this one. He tightened his hold on the body, pulling the boy's head into his shoulder, and grimly turned back toward the living room, crouching as he followed John through the smoky darkness.

Once he was outside again, in the warm California sunlight, he automatically went to Big Red and sat down on the running boards, shifting the still child in his arms slightly. Coughing, he pulled off one glove with his teeth. Mike felt for a pulse in the boy's neck, knowing it was futile because he could smell death on the boy more clearly now, could feel the waxy texture of his skin, could see the blackened teeth in the half-open mouth, but doing it anyway, checking again and again, hoping for some sign of life. One of the guys from the other engine company stepped over and gently pulled Mike's hands away from the boy's neck, picked up the body, and tenderly carried it over to the yellow blankets that seemed to have appeared magically on the grass. How long – ?

Someone else broke out the extra oxygen from the engine and pushed the mask onto Mike's face. Mike started sucking the oxygen, eyes closed, wishing he could get that smell out of his nostrils. When his coughing eased some, Stoker tried to push himself up, to stand his post. He had work to do. Chet and Marco were depending on him to do it. If the fire was still burning, he needed to make sure the water was still flowing.

That's my job, he thought bitterly, not recovering dead kids from hell – . A stab of shame caught him in the throat and he choked off the thought, struggling to get his breathing and his emotions under control. He had work to do. He grabbed hold of Big Red, grateful for her cool metal bulk. Stand up. Do your job, Stoker, do your – .

"L.A., this is Engine 51. Cancel additional ambulances. Respond the coroner and the chaplain this location." The smoke-infested rasp of Captain Stanley's voice continued after a pause littered with muffled coughs. "We have Code F times six – repeat, Code F times six – and will need transport." There was another pause before he continued, the words dragged out of him. "Be advised these are six, uh, juveniles."

"10-4, Engine 51. Requesting coroner, chaplain, and transport for Code F juvenile times six." Sam Lanier's calm voice notwithstanding, Stoker felt his throat start to close up again. Hunched over beside the big Ward LaFrance, he couldn't seem to draw in any air. Another unwelcome thought slid through his mind as he doubled over completely: Was this what it had been like for the boy? He barely heard Hank request an ETA on law enforcement as he continued to gag and retch and cough and not breathe – .

"Stoker. Look at me." Davey McRaines laid a reassuring hand on Mike's shoulder; Mike looked up at the paramedic from 84s with pain evident in his watery, blood-shot eyes. "Try to relax for me. That's it. It'll be okay, man, it'll be okay," he murmured, pushing the engineer back into a sitting position. From the mask that was back on his face, Mike began to suck sweet cool oxygen into his lungs again. "Let me check you out now," Davey continued, freeing Mike's arm from his coat so he could wrap a blood pressure cuff around it. He kept up a light patter of stock paramedic comfort phrases as he finished his evaluation. "That's better, Mike, just keep breathing for – ."

His soothing words were shattered when a woman began screaming: "My son, where's my son? Oh, no. No. Nononono. No! Please, dear God, not Mi – ."

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Breathe in, two, three. Breathe out, two, three. Breathe in, two, three. Breathe out, two, three.

"Ahh! There's my favorite firefighter specialist." The lilting voice prompted Mike to open his eyes and focus on the fair-haired nurse peering down at him. "I heard you'd come in while I was on my break."

"Miss McCall," he replied through the oxygen mask, voice still a little scratchy.

"Call me Dixie," she reminded him with a gentle smile as she charted his vitals. "You've got about 45 minutes left of your breathing treatment. If your lungs are clear, you can return to the station then, if you feel up to it. How does that sound?"

"Good," he murmured, then coughed deeply, gagging. "Thanks, Dixie," he said after she matter-of-factly provided a means to discretely rid himself of the albuterol-flavored mucus the last round of coughing had brought up. He'd used up the few industrial paper towels the respiratory aide had provided.

"You're welcome, Mike," she replied, adjusting his mask and resisting the urge to brush his hair back from his forehead. "Now, just try to relax – and keep taking those good, deep breaths for me." A small cough overwhelmed his verbal response, leading him to merely nod instead. "I'll be back to check in on you later."

"Right," he rasped tiredly and closed his blue eyes, concentrating on his breathing.

Breathe in, two, three. Breathe out, two, three. Breathe in, two, three. Breathe out, two, three.

And nothing else.

Don't think, two, three. Just breathe, two, three. Forget, two, three. His name, two, three.

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(26 August)

Towel still wrapped around his waist, he stared at the dress uniform hanging on the back of his bedroom door. It was still cloaked in clear plastic from the dry cleaners, ready to be decorated with the rank, commendations, and badge earned by one Firefighter Specialist Michael D. Stoker over the past ten years of faithful service with the Los Angeles County Fire Department.

He had planned to wear it to the boy's funeral later today, as a show of respect. He half-expected an official presence at the funeral, although that would ultimately be up to the family. Departmental regulations required neither but allowed both … or so he'd learned when he inquired about dress uniform protocols a few days ago.

Now as he fingered the double row of citation bars he'd been about to pin on, moving slowly from bottom right to top left – time in service … FEO … extrication specialty … engineer of the year … honor guard … unit citations … courage – he suddenly felt unworthy of wearing the uniform he'd worked for all those years.

What kind of a fireman can I be, he asked himself, if I fail to put the lives of helpless children before my own, whatever the cost, whatever the outcome? Where did that man go?

When he left his apartment twenty minutes later, his unadorned dress uniform remained, unable to completely conceal the door's newly-acquired scars.

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The hour-long drive to the small town cemetery, where the only service would be, passed quickly and, before he knew it, he was parking his truck along the narrow street. The cloyingly sweet aroma of ripe apricots from the nearby grove enveloped him as his eyes wandered across the hills bordering the cemetery, part of the Los Padres National Forest. He noted other early arrivals as he waited but got out only when he spied the hearse making its slow way down the potholed lane.

Despite his restrained pace, his long legs took him too quickly to the graveside; the smell of fresh dirt assaulted his nose as he drew near. Halting behind the last row of seats, the fireman fumbled briefly for the talisman buried away in his pocket and then slipped on his sunglasses. And, at once, he became the nondescript mourner in a somber dark suit and tie ... posture rigid … jaw clenched … bloodied right fist wrapped tightly around the St. Florian medal with its plain green ribbon.

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This story follows immediately the events in 'The Call of the Day' and the associated sketches in 'BackStories: The Call of the Day.' The careful reader will notice some inconsistencies between the sketches and this story; these inconsistencies arose during the development of the sketches into more polished works. My apologies for not being able to follow my usual SOP and post the entire story at once; certain characters are being … stubborn.

I do this for fun not profit. The characters (with the exception of Patty McConnikee, Henry McConnikee and other minor original characters) are not mine; the mistakes (without exception) are.