“I have many faces,” I said.
“This one? This one is ‘soft idiot thinking about a girl.’”
I shoved him with my shoulder. “Meeting was fine.”
“That’s not the face you make when things go ‘fine.’ That’s the face you make when someone hands you a puppy and tells you it loves you.”
I was saved from answering by the sharp klaxon of the alarm.
“Station One, respond: smoke investigation, possible structure fire. Location: Main Street. Caller reports smoke coming from Pour Decisions.”
I didn’t hear anything after Pour Decisions.
My heart stopped and then restarted too fast, adrenaline shooting straight into my bloodstream. Though I wasn’t even on duty, I grabbed my gear without conscious thought. My hands knew the motions even as my brain went into a cold, focused freefall.
Pour Decisions.
Jess.
She’d said she was going back to prep for tomorrow. She always prepped late. She’d rushed out of the barn like she had a schedule to beat, muttering about syrups and cold brew and restocking. And I’d let her walk away with that broken latch still sticking every time someone touched it.
Dispatch crackled again as we piled into the engine.
“Update: visible smoke from vent. Caller cannot confirm occupant exited. Repeat—unknown if occupied.”
Moose sat across from me, face suddenly sober. “She’s probably not inside.”
“She’s always inside at this time of night.” My voice was too tight.
Meatball took a corner fast enough to send every loose object in the cab sliding. Sirens wailed over us, drowning out the hammering in my chest. The ride from the station to Main Streetwasn’t long, but tonight it stretched like someone was pulling the seconds apart with pliers.
“Hey.” Moose leaned forward so I could hear him over the wind and the sirens. “Breathe.”
“I’m breathing.”
“Not like a human, you’re not.”
I tried. Oxygen felt thin and stretched, barely enough.
The second we turned onto Main, all the air got punched out of me.
Pour Decisions sat at the curb exactly where it always did, but now smoke billowed from the Airstream’s roof vent in a thick gray ribbon. Flickers of dull orange flashed inside like the truck had swallowed a lantern and was trying to cough it back up.
A small crowd had gathered at a distance, people huddled near the shops, pointing, shouting. The air already tasted acrid—burned plastic or wiring.
Meatball barely had us stopped before we jumped out.
“Anyone inside?” I called, sprinting toward the truck.
Felicity Harmon from Bloomsday Flower Shop lifted trembling fingers toward her mouth. “Jess is still in there!”
Everything inside me sharpened.
Moose was already hauling gear toward me. Captain MacAvoy barked orders behind us as he pulled the line.
“Approach from the side—watch the vent!” he shouted.
I headed straight for the side door—the one with the temperamental latch. The one I’d begged her to fix just days ago.
