All Good Things Must Begin

Part One – The Seventh Man

June the first dawned cloudless, cool, and only slightly breezy in Los Angeles County, a welcome relief from the heavy, hot, unpredictably gusty few days that had kept every station within fifty miles in sleepless dread of brush fires. Paramedic/Firefighter John Gage backed his Land Rover into his normal parking space and checked the time. For once, he wouldn't be skidding into roll call with seconds to spare. Today, he'd made a special effort to be early for his shift, because Station 51 was getting a new firefighter. It wasn't so much that he wanted to make a good impression on his new colleague–although that was part of it–but more that he remembered the feeling of walking into his first new permanent station as a bit of an oddity, with the weight of expectation and a whole lot to prove.

His partner, Roy DeSoto, was already in the locker room, buttoning up his blue uniform shirt. "'Morning, Junior," he said as John strode in, and glanced pointedly at his watch. "Looking particularly bright-eyed and bushy tailed today."

"Yeah, well, I got to bed early last night, ate a good breakfast this morning, and already had my first cup of coffee," John responded, peeling off his polo shirt and reaching for his own blues.

"Early night, huh," Roy said, feigning sympathy. "I guess your date didn't go so well?"

John smirked, "Now, Roy, I never said that . . . ," provoking a thoughtful and appreciative, "Ah," out of Roy.

As they crossed the bay to head to the morning assembly, Captain Stanley ducked back into his office. "John, Roy," he said, nodding but saying nothing about John's unusual punctuality. A little stressed this morning, then.

It was a few minutes before the entire shift complement was assembled: Stoker was the first one in (after Cap) as usual and Lopez trailed him, stuffing the last of his apple slice into his mouth. Kelly made it by the skin of his teeth, easing into place at the end of the line just as Cap strolled around from the back of the Engine.

"Gentlemen," Cap said, "I want you to meet our new line– er, lineman, Evelyn Wayfair. Evelyn, these are John Gage and Roy DeSoto, the Squad 51 paramedics, Mike Stoker you've already met, and Chet Kelly and Marco Lopez, you'll be working the lines with."

To their credit, every man on that crew disciplined his face, mostly without betraying the fight. The fact that their new lineman was in fact a "linewoman" was not a surprise; Captain Stanley had held a shift meeting as soon as the assignment had come through, and had made his expectations perfectly clear. The crew had already spent some time making a few adjustments to the sleeping quarters and the latrine to handle the new co-ed situation.

No, it wasn't her sex that was the shock, it was her race. Evelyn Wayfair was a Negro.

John watched Evelyn's face as she was introduced. He recognized that inscrutable expression; heck, he'd used it himself more times than he could count. It was the wary look of someone who was waiting to find out how this next important phase of her life was going to be: merely difficult or completely untenable. Into the silence, he said, "Evelyn, welcome to 51s. You had the ten cent tour yet?" He offered his hand. The rest of the men seemed released from their instant of paralysis, and moved forward to surround their new crewmate.

Marco offered to make a fresh pot of coffee; Chet peppered Evelyn with questions about her prior assignment. Mike, characteristically quiet, gently relieved her of her duffel bag.

Cap said, "Mike'll show you around the Engine, after you get your gear stowed. Then, uh, Chet and Marco will take you through the routines – hopefully we won't get called out for a while. You, uh, you got any questions, Wayfair?"

Evelyn looked at all the faces, trying to remember who was who. "No, Captain," she said, and her voice was a smooth alto. "I guess I'm ready to get started."

Cap watched the four of them walk away, the corners of his mouth turned down with concern. He let them get out of earshot, then said quietly, "John, my office for a minute?" Making quick eye contact with Roy, John shrugged and said, "Sure, Cap."

Roy said, "I'll meet you at the Squad for inventory when you're free."

John rarely got called into Cap's office, and it was never for anything good. He stood with his hands behind his back, waiting.

Captain Stanley was clearly uncomfortable. He wasn't easy with his words at the best of times, and he was struggling to put a sentence together now. Finally, he said, "John, you know I never think about you being, you know, an Indian–it's just not relevant to the job."

John felt his face go slack. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn't this. He'd never pegged Cap for a "you're okay for an Indian" type of guy.

"I'm thinking that there's probably been times in your life when there were no other, you know, Indians around or on the job–"

"Still aren't," John muttered.

"So I'm thinking you're probably in the best position to even start to understand what Wayfair is walking into." Cap took a few paces across the room, turned, paced back. "I mean, the way Kelly likes to push your buttons – there's going to be plenty of people who'll be on her for real."

"She say what it was like being a probie at 99s?" John asked.

"She didn't say much, but from our short conversation this morning, sounded like it maybe wasn't the best experience of her life."

"Yeah, well, probie year's hard enough just being normal, let alone if you've got, you know–" he held out both hands, curved inward, in front of his chest.

Cap looked away quickly. "It's important that we set the tone here, at 51, right from the start," he said. "We can't have people hesitating to help her or hand off to her just because she's a . . . Negro."

"Or a woman," John added, thinking that the latter might be the bigger problem. He thought for a moment. "Hey, Cap, what about Marco? She's going to be partnering up with him, and he's Mexican. Why not have him in here?"

Cap grimaced. No easy or tactful way to put this. "Lopez is different. Anything racial comes up, he can call Hernandez at 10s or Garcia at 69s – they'd have his back. And he's got a great family support system. Wayfair won't have any of that, just like . . ." He trailed off.

Just like me. The lone Indian in a land of Hollywood-inspired cowboys. He thought for a second about that stunt Chet had pulled, presenting a gift-tied "peace pipe" and thinking it was hilarious. Even though Roy had listened sympathetically to John's rant in the Squad, he really hadn't understood just how offensive and upsetting that gesture had been. He could only imagine what kind of crap was about to get thrown Evelyn's way in the name of "I was only kidding," and "Geez, can't you take a joke?"

John shoved his hands in his pockets. "A'ight, Cap. I'll handle it."

"Oh, and John," Cap quickly tagged on, "be subtle about it, okay?"

I'm pretty expert at this by now, is what John thought. What he said was, "Ten-four, Cap."

The next time John saw Wayfair, she was sitting cross-legged on her assigned bunk, which had been placed closest to the far wall. Her hair was pulled back severely into a curly puff at the nape of her neck, and her expression of deep concentration made her look even more serious than she had at roll call first thing that morning. She was studying a procedure manual; from the looks of the cramped writing in the margins of the pages, she'd been over that book at least a hundred times.

"Hey," John said, and she looked up sharply, "I know you've had a lot thrown at you this morning, but do you think you have some time to get introduced to the Squad? We want you to know where all the boxes are kept so you can help us out on scene."

Evelyn unfolded herself and stood. "Sure thing–Gage, right?"

"Yeah, that's right, but everyone calls me John or Johnny. 'Gage' is for on-scene crises and when I'm in trouble with Cap." She laughed. "Uh, you go by Wayfair, or Evelyn?"

Another laugh. "'Evelyn'—or 'Eev-lyn'—was, believe it or not, my grandfather. It's a man's name if you're British. Everyone calls me 'Evvy.'" She tossed the manual to the foot of the bed and headed his way. She was not a short woman, maybe five foot seven, but slender. The uniform looked good on her, John decided. By sheer force of habit, he found himself estimating her approximate weight at about one forty-five, information that might save him a few precious seconds on a biophone call to Rampart.

"You're British?" he asked, as he led her out to the bay.

"My family is from Barbados, it's a British territory."

"Ah, I thought I caught a bit of a lilt in your speech. Tiny, tiny accent."

"And yours as well," Evvy replied, "tribal." John stopped short and stared at her for a moment. "Spent some time on a couple reservations in college."

John grimaced. "Anthropological observation?" he asked, and couldn't quite keep the chill out of his voice.

She shook her head. "Building design. I majored in structural engineering. That's what piqued my interest in firefighting, actually, working on flame-resistant and earthquake-proof building materials and techniques."

"Huh, well I'll be. Guess I hadn't really thought about the science of it all," John mused.

"I bet you're pretty well-versed on 'the science of it all' from running in and out of a hundred burning and collapsing buildings." She shrugged. "I just came at it from the theory side first, that's all."

"Huh," John said again. "Hey, Roy, Evvy here is a building expert. Majored in it in college."

Roy raised his eyebrows. "You don't say. Maybe she can argue in our defense when Chief eyes a fully-involved warehouse and says," he tilted his head and squinted for effect, "yeah, she'll hold for a bit longer–head on in." They all laughed.

Just as Roy was removing the biophone for demonstration, the station tones sounded, and all activity anywhere in the building stopped for a split second.

"Engine 51, car fire, 1427 Catalina Boulevard, 1-4-2-7 Catalina Boulevard, time out eleven-oh-four."

Cap responded with the station call sign and automatically searched for Evvy, who was already donning her slightly-too-big turnout and helmet and swinging herself up onto the back of the Engine. Roy shoved the box back into the compartment, totally used to conversations being cut off mid-sentence, only to be resumed hours later.

Once the sirens faded down the street, John said, "Well, what do you think about Evvy?"

Roy sighed softly. "Well, I guess I'd have to wait and see her in action, but . . ." He paused. "You know, I get the whole 'equality' thing, but . . ." Again he trailed off.

"But?" John prompted.

"Johnny, I'm not a small guy. And I just keep picturing being trapped in a burning building with the only way out being on that girl's shoulder. Doesn't fill me with confidence, I gotta say." Roy kept his gaze level, refusing to apologize for his constant calculation of the odds of him going home to his wife and two kids at the end of every shift.

"Well, if she couldn't hump the weight, she never would have made it out of Academy," John pointed out. "And, I mean, I've lifted you plenty of times."

"I didn't say it was rational," Roy said. Then he gave John a look. "And anyway, here I was fully expecting you to be all about noticing her looks and trying finagle a date with her."

John widened his eyes in mock injury as he placed fingertips defensively on his chest. "What kind of guy do you think I am, Roy? Of course I noticed her looks. She's a great looking gal. Nice figure, pretty smile. I'm not blind, you know. But," he lifted his chin haughtily, "I make it a policy never to date linemen."

With a snort, Roy slammed the compartment door shut and locked it. "Your standards are really impressive, Junior. Come on. I'm hungry."

The caller who reported the car fire had neglected to mention that the vehicle was inside the attached garage at the moment. When Engine 51 turned the corner, it was met with a one-quarter-involved two-story residence. The neighbors were valiantly trying to wet down the roof with a garden hose, but the meager pressure was no match for the burning shingles.

Cap eyed the house. "Chet, you and Wayfair take an inch-and-a-half to the east side there. Marco, you and I'll take it from the front. Engine 51, requesting second engine to this location. Residence is involved." Even as Dispatch acknowledged, Cap was snapping the antenna down with his palm and reaching for the hose.

Over to the right side of the house, Evvy stood behind Kelly, keeping the swaying rhythm of the spray. She could feel the power of the jetting water through the heavy hose and her gloves, controlled precisely by Stoker's gauges and dials. In the middle of the street, one house down, the homeowner raged and shouted at what might have been his son, and the son shouted back defiantly. The conversation was interesting but unimportant, since Cap had already confirmed that there was nobody currently in the house. The garage was fully soaked, and the thick heavy smoke billowing out actually looked more ominous than the dangerous orange flames had. After a few more minutes, it was time to pull the insides of the garage apart and drag the detritus onto the lovely manicured lawn. This set the homeowner on a new rant, aimed now at the firefighters who had just saved most of his residence, but it was necessary to make sure there were no remaining hot spots. The vehicle, which looked to Evvy like it might once have been an expensive sports car, was a smoking burnt shell.

Stoker reduced the hose pressure to support the overhaul, thoroughly soaking the clothing, sports equipment, and other bits of family life that had been stored in the garage. Evvy saw a baby shoe wrapped in a melted plastic bag, and thought, That's a shame.

After another ten minutes, Stoker shut off the flow, and Chet and Evvy set about draining and rolling the hose back up.

Engine 36 had already finished stowing their gear, and Tim Mitchelson headed 51's way. "Need a hand?"

"Naw, but thanks," Chet said, a little out of breath from heaving the dead weight of the wet hose. "We got it. Hey, you met our new guy–this is Wayfair. Wayfair, Tim Mitchelson out of 36s. We came on the line together."

Evvy was in the process of removing her helmet and wiping her brow with the back of her left hand. She reached out with her right to shake. "Nice to meet you." Her hand hovered, unmet, as Tim's face cycled through about a million different expressions before landing on "hard and closed." After an awkward pause, she slipped her hand into her turnout pocket.

Tim ignored her completely and turned his shoulder to face Chet, excluding Evvy. "Looks like you will need a hand after all."

Chet stood there, torn between his new colleague and his old friend. He was saved, in a way, by Marco, who approached and said pointedly, "We got this, thanks." To Evvy, he gestured with his chin. "Go tell Cap we'll be ready to go in ten."

Feeling thoroughly dismissed, Evvy headed over to Cap to relay the message. He gave her a curt, "Thanks," before lifting the HT to give Dispatch their status.

36's captain glanced over at Evvy briefly and commented to Captain Stanley in a conversational tone intended to carry, "Guess 51 drew the short straw, huh?" Cap's gaze tracked to Evvy as well, and he shrugged. "She did okay today." Ringing endorsement, Evvy thought.

36's engineer strode up "Hey, Cap," he greeted Stanley. "Heard you got the girl fireman, huh? Tough break." He gave Evvy an undisguised head-to-toe and added, "Well, at least she'll be able to cook. Might get sick of fried chicken and collards after a while, though." Cap set his mouth in a firm line, but didn't respond. Instead, he raised the HT and reported, "Engine 51, available." Then he walked away. The two 36 men smirked in Evvy's direction, then left to join their own crew.

At a loss now, Evvy stood off to the side while Chet and Marco secured the hoses and stowed the gear. At Chet's nod, she took her place on the Engine and grabbed onto the hold bar. Conversation was unnecessary, as words would be inaudible over the roar of the truck and the wind. Evvy ran through the call in her mind, looking for mistakes or areas to improve. As far as she could tell, she had performed okay. She supposed there'd be a post-mortem back at the station.

The Squad was not in the bay when the Engine backed in. Evvy stowed her turnout and helmet, and headed to the dorm. It was well past lunch, but she wasn't hungry. She thought about grabbing something anyway while the getting was good, but needed a moment to regroup. Glancing at the empty doorway, she slid her hand into her pillowcase and pulled out her journal.

All through her probationary year, she had used the small book to record her thoughts and, occasionally, to rant. She'd found that the only way she could make it through a shift was to pour out her feelings in writing, get them out of her head before she snapped and said anything that would make her working life even more unpleasant. Station 99 had built up a lot of calluses on her soul, and had caused her to exercise self-control muscles she didn't even know she had. As a probie, she had been continually criticized, hectored, and sidelined. She'd been relegated to dish duty, mop duty, shine the Engine duty–any menial task typically fobbed off on the lowest man on the totem pole–plus some made up just specially for her. Her crew mates would regularly ignore her, decline to respond to any of her attempts at conversation, and exclude her from team meetings.

She had even been left behind on site, in full gear, after a call responding to a trash fire. Her Cap had chewed her out for an hour over that one, as if nobody on the Engine could count and see that they were a member short. The humiliation of having to wait twenty minutes for the Engine's return, and the walk of shame into the station when they got back, still burned. That was when she'd bought the hardcover notebook, secured with a strap and buckle, and started writing down all the things she could not possibly say to her crewmates.

The ten minutes of silence did her spirit some good, so she stashed the book in her newly assigned locker and headed to the kitchen. The chatter stopped abruptly as she stepped in–Chet was apparently describing his last date to an interested Lopez–and everybody suddenly got very absorbed in whatever reading material was in reach. She poured a glass of water and found a slice of cheese and some white bread in the fridge. During her station orientation that morning, it was made clear that anything not labeled was fair game. After a pause, she slid into a seat and started in on her sandwich.

"That all you're eating?" Chet said finally from underneath the biggest mustache she'd ever seen on an actual person. "That's not gonna last you the whole day."

A conversation? Interesting. "It'll fill me up," she said with a small smile.

"You know, you can't be on a diet and do this job," Chet replied. He looked at Stoker and Lopez. "Girls are always like, 'oh, if I eat more than this celery stick, I'll never fit into my bikini.'" The high-pitched voice he used was cartoonish.

"I don't even want to think about seeing you in a bikini, Chet," Roy commented, walking into the kitchen and heading straight for the coffee pot. "That would put me right off my food." He lifted the pot, peered in, and dumped the contents down the drain in favor of making a fresh one.

"Hey, how'd your first run go?" John asked, bringing up the rear and opening the fridge. He pulled out a plate of leftovers and sat down to eat it cold.

"Fine," Evvy responded, at the same time Stoker muttered, "She did okay." John looked between the two. Stoker was back behind the day's paper, and Evvy stuffed a bit of bread in her mouth. He waited.

"She can handle a hose," Chet offered. John shoved a forkful of cold beef and potatoes into his mouth and chewed vigorously. Nobody said anything else. There wasn't any hostility hanging in the air, so he gathered that nothing terrible had happened. But the guys didn't seem inclined to engage in any of the inane conversation that filled the average shift's downtime. After a few moments, Evvy finished her sandwich, rinsed out her plate, and left the room.

"Okay, now how'd she do, really?" John asked. "It's kinda quiet in here."

"Like I said, she did okay," Chet answered. "We got there, put out a garage fire, cleaned up, came back here. Nothing to write a dissertation about. It's just, well, there's nothing really to talk about with a girl in the room." John couldn't argue with that—and wouldn't have had the opportunity anyway, as the station's tones went off again, and he and Roy were heading out to deal with a suspected heart attack.

While Squad 51 was out on two back-to-back runs, Engine 51 had a quiet afternoon. Evvy assisted in maintenance chores, got in some more studying, and suffered through a helping of what was advertised as a goulash made by Chet. After dinner, as the crew assembled in the lounge to watch the movie of the week, she ducked out to take advantage of their distraction and set up for bed.

At 99s, she had bunked in a spare room, only partially repurposed from a utility closet. As it was located right next to the dispatch speaker, there was no fear of her sleeping through an alarm, at least. The 99 crew had treated the idea of privacy with disdain; she had learned to shower quickly and only when necessary, and most of the time just washed up at the sink—never, ever being fully exposed.

The 51 crew had put up a handwritten sign on the bathroom mirror, informing all that the shower was reserved for Evvy between 7 and 8 pm. She shook her head; bad luck if she was out on a run during that magic hour. She supposed she'd have to go to bed stinky on those occasions.

She was a little tired, but she had learned the hard way never to go to sleep in the dorm until everyone turned in. She sat cross-legged on the floor and bent forward until her forehead touched the linoleum, stretching her spine and extending her arms past her head. Holding for a count of thirty, she felt the day's tension begin to release.

"Man, I'm gonna have to start calling you Gumby," John exclaimed with a laugh from above her. "Doesn't that hurt?"

She rolled back up, vertebra by vertebra, to an upright sitting position. "No, feels good. I used to stretch like this before and after meets."

That caught John's attention. "You ran track?"

"I did hurdles, badly, but I was pretty solid at cross-country," Evvy said. "You?"

"Wasn't too bad at the 440, and the mile relay," John said, with a little pride.

"I guess being a sprinter is good preparation for running for your life from a blast," Evvy observed. "Too bad your job is the total opposite of leaving people in your dust."

He flashed a quick smile, lighting up his angular face. "Yeah, that's me, always running pell-mell the wrong way." He offered a hand to help her to her feet. Maybe she was tired, or maybe John's easy charm was working on her. She took his hand and let herself be pulled up. "Guys'll be calling it a night soon. You good?"

Thanks for being nice to me today. "Yeah, I'm good."

When the movie was over, the crew found Evvy sitting on top of her covers, reading. Her turnouts were set up next to her bed. She kept her eyes on her book as they stripped to their t-shirts and boxers–just like she was wearing, except without the sturdy white brassiere underneath–and groaned their way into their horizontal positions of choice. John had the bunk directly across from Evvy's, with Roy on the other side of him. She put her book on the ledge and slipped between the sheets, wiggling her toes. Huh, perhaps short-sheeting wasn't a thing at 51. Nobody said "goodnight"–this wasn't The Waltons–and soon there was soft snoring across the room. Evvy lay on her back, considering. More than half a shift, and nobody had tried to make her cry. Banner day.

She had finally quieted her mind and dozed off when the alarm sounded tones for the station and two others. Structure fire. Lights came on automatically. With practiced ease, each crewmember swung their legs to the floor and into their turnout pants with boots inserted. Suspenders were snapped up, and everybody was on the move. Evvy followed her muscle memory, grabbing her coat and helmet, and scrambled up onto the Engine.

They saw the flames long before they pulled up close to the four-story apartment building. It was fully involved, from the top down. Station 10 was already in control of the scene, with Engine 36 wailing up behind them. It was chaos, with residents screaming and crying hysterically, even though they had already safely escaped the flames. 10's captain briefed Stanley: they needed a door-to-door on three and four, twelve apartments. The first and second had already been confirmed clear. At this time of night, nobody could accurately say who was home and who was not.

Cap sent Roy, John, and Chet in, of course, and nodded Evvy on to assist Marco at the front ground floor windows. Every once in a while, she could hear Cap checking in with his rescue men by name. He seemed tense and focused, but not worried.

A firefighter burst through the front doorway, carrying a civilian limp in his arms. "Wayfair, assist DeSoto!" Cap yelled. She handed off the hose to her relief and chased down Roy at the Squad 51 staging area.

"Grab the O2!" Roy said, his voice louder than she had heard it anytime that day. He laid the victim, a woman in a partially melted nylon nightgown, onto the sterile yellow sheet. Roy looked up at Evvy and said, "Do exactly what I tell you, and fast. I need saline, lots of it, and then I want you to cut away those burnt edges of her nightie." Evvy moved swiftly to the med box already set up and open, and grabbed four packages. At Roy's nod, she snagged a pair of scissors and, as gently as she could, snipped at the non-flame-retardant garment.

"Pass me the biophone." She could barely follow the swift and sure movements of Roy's hands as he covered the woman with a sterile sheet and soaked it thoroughly. This was so completely different from firefighting; this was actual crisis medicine, delicate and precise in contrast to brute force. Roy got the direction to start an IV of some clear liquid from whoever was on the phone, and he shoved the bag into her hands. "Hold it up," he said. The woman began to stir, regaining some measure of consciousness, and with it, the full fury of second and third degree burns. She began to scream under the O2 mask, writhing in pain. Evvy used her free hand to hold the woman's arm still, lest she dislodge the IV catheter.

"Rampart, victim is waking up and is in extreme pain," Roy said harshly into the biophone. She could see that he was trying to do several things at once: take a new set of vitals, locate the medicine to inject into the IV line, and calm his frantic patient. And all the time, the victim was screaming, raw and grating, from a charred throat.

Another body was laid down to Evvy's right, a young man, coughing. John placed his own mask over the kid's mouth and nose, and commenced taking vital signs.

"Wayfair, get over here," Cap shouted. She handed the IV bag to Roy and rose to sprint back to the Engine. He sent her to relieve a lineman from 10s, who hesitated for way too long before relinquishing his place on the hose. She planted her feet and grabbed on. At this point, she couldn't read anyone's name or number, and it didn't matter. Another firefighter brought out another victim, and on and on it went. This fire was hungry and stubborn, and she could hear it tearing the building apart from the inside.

At some point, the roof began to collapse, as it must when the walls cannot support it anymore, and there was a flood of activity as men dropped their hoses and retreated to a safe distance. She saw Cap look around and do a quick head count–all his men accounted for. Now it was just a war of attrition; eventually, the fire would run out of fuel, helped along by the flood of water beating it down. But the fight would last another couple of hours.

Evvy felt herself enter that stage of fatigue where, if someone asked you if you were standing up, you'd have to think about it. It was not unlike long-distance running, where "distance" began to measure the space between your mind and your body, not between the starting gun and the finish line. She let the hose control the rhythm of her body, instead of the other way around, but it didn't matter, because at this point, they were one. The din began to lessen, as people were taken to shelters, to hospitals, and the fire began to contemplate defeat. As steam and smoke began to replace flame, she felt a hard tap on her shoulder, then a shove.

"Cap says you're relieved," the firefighter said. It took a moment to penetrate the fog of her mind. Impatiently, he pushed her aside, almost knocking her down, and took over her position. Regaining her balance with some effort, she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her sooty gloves, and staggered toward Engine 51. She looked over toward 51's staging area. The Squad was gone, as were the paramedics and the patients. The yellow sheet was still there, though, littered with ripped plastic bags and patches from the victim's purple nightgown.

Cap's chest loomed into her view and she looked up. He studied her for a moment, assessing. "Go grab a drink. We'll start cleaning up in a few."

"Yes, Cap," Evvy said, and headed over to get a cup of water. The Engineer handing out paper cups took one look at her face and said to no one in particular, "Who's the bunny?" There were scattered laughs. Someone added, "Is that 'jungle bunny' or 'Playboy bunny?'" As much as Evvy wanted that drink, she turned on her heel and walked back to 51's spot. If she couldn't avoid rubbing the brief rush of tears away, it would just seem like she had smoke in her eyes. She walked past Cap and got to work cleaning up Squad 51's trash.

Author's Note: I've moved this milestone up by a few years. The first African American woman to graduate from Academy and complete her probationary period in the Los Angeles Fire Department was d'Lisa Daives, in 1984. In 1988, Tonya Lee Burns became the first African American woman firefighter to be hired by the Los Angeles County Fire Department after serving with the Oxnard and Inglewood Fire Departments. (Source: The African American Firefighter Museum ( )).