Chapter 9
At the firehouse over an hour later, everyone is still gone and I'm getting restless. I've been reading in my dad's office, and I set my book down on my chair. I go downstairs, realizing with every step just how hungry I am. I yawn, casting a look at the clock. It's almost ten-thirty.
I go into the kitchen, my hopes of finding something edible not exactly sky-high. At the house, there's either food or there isn't, depending on who cooked that night (if it was good there aren't leftovers, if it was bad there are plenty) and the number of jobs they've been called to. Either way, unless you've got something that's specifically yours that's put away, you could easily be out of luck. Unless, of course, you're sneaky (ahem), devious (ahem, ahem), and most importantly, alone in the kitchen (ahem, ahem, ahem). I open the refrigerator, and find something for myself that passes as edible.
I finish up, ready to go back to my book, when I hear the telltale sounds of the fire truck and engine pulling in. I hear stashing of gear and other post-run business and everyone trickles in and out of the kitchen.
I hang out for a little while until I hear an ambulance coming in. Holly and her partner Madeleine are back.
"Hi," I greet them.
Holly returns my hug, and I can see she looks just as tired as my dad as she heads straight for the kettle for a cup of tea. Madeleine pulls up a chair next to me.
"How's it going?" Madeleine asks me. I like her—she's pretty new on the job, but virtually radiates medical knowledge and excellent patient care.
"Pretty good," I answer as the hustle and bustle in the kitchen continues around us. "Doing the whole school thing."
"The whole school thing?" Madeleine asks with amusement.
"Yup," I answer proudly and matter-of-factly. "School's good, friends are good, the whole bit—ah, thing."
"I see," she answers.
"How're you?" I ask. (In addition to being the polite way to respond, I absolutely have to know other people's business. It's part of my charm—ah, thing.)
"Exhausted," she yawns, "I've been taking extra shifts."
Holly comes back over to where we're sitting, trademark mug in hand as she takes a seat next to me. "I think we can head out," she says to me. "Dad might not be back for a little while."
"What happened?" I ask.
Holly hesitates. "It was pretty bad," she says simply.
"Bad—?" I begin, but Madeleine cuts me off.
"It was a family, with little kids. Two of the youngest girls didn't survive," she says quietly.
I nod, gently putting my head on Holly's shoulder as a sign of sympathy and support. I learned long ago that Holly and my dad have very different ways of dealing with bad runs: Holly gets really quiet (and sometimes moody) and lights an abnormal amount of candles. My dad stomps around, occasionally breaking things and yelling. It's just another side of the job.
"All right," Holly says after a few moments. "Ready to go?" I nod.
I run upstairs and grab my things, calling my good-byes to everyone. When I get back downstairs, Holly has her coat on. I say good-bye to Madeleine, and we step out into the New York night air.