WE NEVER KNOW, AT FIRST, if we are headed into a cooker or a smudge. At 2:46 A.M. last night, the lightswent on upstairs. The bells went off, too, but I can’t say that I ever really hear them. In ten seconds, I wasdressed and walking out the door of my room at the station. In twenty, I was stepping into my turnout gear,pulling up the long elastic suspenders, and shrugging into the turtle-shell of my coat. By the time twominutes passed, Caesar was driving the engine onto the streets of Upper Darby; Paulie and Red were the canman and the hydrant man, riding behind.

Sometime after that, consciousness came in small bright flashes: we remembered to check our breathingapparatus; we slid on our gloves; dispatch called to tell us that the house was on Hoddington Drive; that itappeared to be either a structure fire or a room and contents fire. “Turn left here,” I told Caesar. Hoddingtonwas only eight blocks away from where I lived.

The house looked like the mouth of a dragon. Caesar drove around as far as he could, trying to get me a viewof three sides. Then we all piled out of the engine and stared for a moment, four Davids against a Goliath.

“Charge a two-and-a-half inch line,” I told Caesar, tonight’s motor pump operator. A woman in a nightgownran toward me, sobbing, three children holding her skirt. “Mija,” she screamed, pointing. “.Mija!”

“.Dónde está?” I got right in front of her, so that she couldn’t see anything but my face. “.Cuantos a.ostiene?”

She pointed to a window on the second floor. “Tres,” she cried.

“Cap,” Caesar yelled, “we’re ready over here.”

I heard the approaching whine of a second engine, the reserve guys coming to back us up. “Red, vent thenortheast corner of the roof; Paulie, put the wet stuff on the red stuff and push it out when it’s got somewhereto go. We’ve got a kid on the second floor. I’m going in to see if I can get her.”

It was not, like in the movies, a slam dunk—a scene for the hero to go win his Oscar. If I got in there, and thestairs had gone…if the structure threatened to collapse…if the temperature of the space had gotten so hot thateverything was combustible and ripe for flashover—I would have backed out and told my men to back outwith me. The safety of the rescuer is of a higher priority than the safety of the victim.

Always.

I’m a coward. There are times when my shift is over that I’ll stay and roll hose, or put on a fresh pot of coffeefor the crew coming in, instead of heading straight to my house. I have often wondered why I get more rest ina place where, for the most part, I’m roused out of bed two or three times a night. I think it is because in afirehouse, I don’t have to worry about emergencies happening—they’re supposed to. The minute I walkthrough the door at home, I’m worrying about what might come next.

Once, in second grade, Kate drew a picture of a firefighter with a halo above his helmet. She told her classthat I would only be allowed to go to Heaven, because if I went to Hell, I’d put out all the fires.

I still have that picture.

In a bowl, I crack a dozen eggs and start to whip them into a frenzy. The bacon’s already spitting on thestove; the griddle’s heating for pancakes. Firemen eat together—or at least we try to, before the bells ring.

This breakfast will be a treat for my guys, who are still showering away the memories of last night from theirskin. Behind me, I hear the fall of footsteps. “Pull up a chair,” I call over my shoulder. “It’s almost ready.”

“Oh, thanks, but no,” says a female voice. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

I turn around, brandishing my spatula. The sound of a woman here is surprising; one who’s shown up just shyof seven A.M. is even more remarkable. She is small, with wild hair that makes me think of a forest fire. Herhands are covered with winking silver rings. “Captain Fitzgerald, I’m Julia Romano. I’m the guardian adlitem assigned to Anna’s case.”

Sara’s told me about her—the woman the judge will listen to, when push comes to shove.

“Smells great,” she says, smiling. She walks up and takes the spatula out of my hand. “I can’t watch someonecook without helping. It’s a genetic abnormality.” I watch her reach into the fridge, rummaging around. Of allthings, she comes back with a jar of horseradish. “I was hoping you might have a few minutes to talk.”

“Sure.” Horseradish?

She adds a good wad of the stuff to the eggs, and then pulls orange zest off the spice rack, along with somechili powder, and sprinkles this on as well. “How’s Kate doing?”

I pour a circle of batter on the griddle, watch it come to a bubble. When I flip it, it’s an even, creamy brown.

I’ve already spoken to Sara this morning. Kate’s night was uneventful; Sara’s wasn’t. But that’s because ofJesse.

There is a moment during a structure fire when you know you are either going to get the upper hand, or thatit’s going to get the upper hand on you. You notice the ceiling patch about to fall and the staircase eatingitself alive and the synthetic carpet glued to the soles of your boots. The sum of the parts overwhelms, andthat’s when you back out and force yourself to remember that every fire will burn itself out, even withoutyour help.

These days, I’m fighting fire on six sides. I look in front of me and see Kate sick. I look behind me and seeAnna with her lawyer. The only time Jesse isn’t drinking like a fish, he’s strung out on drugs; Sara’s graspingat straws. And me, I’ve got my gear on, safe. I’m holding dozens of hooks and irons and poles—all tools thatare meant to destroy, when what I need is something to rope us together.

“Captain Fitzgerald…Brian!” Julia Romano’s voice knocks me out of my own head, into a kitchen that’srapidly filling with smoke. She reaches past me and shoves the pancake that’s burning off the griddle.

“Jesus!” I drop the charcoal disk that used to be a pancake into the sink, where it hisses at me. “I’m sorry.”

Like open sesame, those two simple words change the landscape.

“Good thing we’ve got the eggs,” Julia Romano says.

In a burning house, your sixth sense kicks in. You can’t see, because of the smoke. You can’t hear, becausefire roars loud. You can’t touch, because it will be the end of you.

In front of me, Paulie manned the nozzle. A line of firefighters backed him up; a charged hose was a thick,dead weight. We worked our way up the stairs, still intact, intent on shoving this fire out the hole Red had putin ............