Chapter 2 - Zach

The buzz came through just as I was trying to swallow down the worst cup of station coffee I’d had all month, which was saying something. Firehouse 9’s break room coffee was either lukewarm motor oil or scalding regret. Today’s brew tasted like someone had tried to reheat it with a cigarette lighter.

“Hey Zach,” Dez called from the kitchen doorway, tossing a peanut butter granola bar at my head. “You want a side of charcoal with your sludge?”

I caught it one-handed, barely. “I’d like a refund on my taste buds.”

The rest of the crew laughed, and for a minute, everything was normal. Quiet afternoon. Static humming from the scanner. Morales was passed out on the couch. Then, the tones dropped.

Engines screamed to life.

“Structure fire,” came the dispatcher’s voice through the radio. “Multiple reports of smoke at 183 Reilly Street. Possible occupants inside. Units respond.”

Reilly Street. That was just off the Rutgers campus.

I was on my feet before the last syllable hit.

“Let’s move!” I shouted, already heading for the truck. Dez fell into step beside me, snapping his helmet strap in place.

“That’s that weird block with the bakery, right?” he asked, hopping up into the cab. “God, I hope this isn’t another raccoon in the oven call. Or a cat in a wall. I’m still coughing up fur from that one last week.”

“It’s not a cat call,” Morales grumbled from the back as he slapped on his coat. “Dispatch said smoke. Occupants. Stay focused.”

Dez gave me a crooked grin as we rolled out, sirens wailing over the Newark traffic. “Still betting someone tried to microwave a Pop-Tart with the foil on. It’s always a Pop-Tart.”

But when we pulled onto Reilly Street, the jokes stopped cold.

Thick smoke was already billowing from a third-floor window. The air tasted like burning plastic and paint fumes. Crowds were forming on the sidewalk, most of them students in pajamas and hoodies, some filming, some just standing frozen in that way people do when they think the worst is still just fiction.

I jumped out of the truck, adrenaline surging as I barked orders.

“Morales, get the main line up. Dez, we’re sweeping the third floor. Mask up. Let’s go.”

We pushed into the building fast, sticking to years of drilled rhythm—boots stomping, shoulders squared, gear cinched tight. The heat hit us on the second floor. By the third, visibility was down to zero.

I turned to Dez, his figure blurred in the haze of smoke and shadows.

“You smell that?” he asked through the mic.

“Burning insulation,” I replied. “And something else.”

Dez paused. “Is that… tuna?”

I frowned. “What?”

But I didn’t have time to guess. I heard it then, muffled behind one of the apartment doors. A weak cough. Something crashing. And a distant, furious meow.

“Third unit on the left!” I shouted, already moving. I could feel the fire shifting in the walls, climbing.

This was real. And someone was still inside.

The door wasn’t locked, but it sure as hell didn’t want to open. I braced my shoulder and hit it hard, once, twice, and on the third slam, the wood cracked and gave way with a groan like it knew it was too late to save itself.

Smoke poured out like it had been waiting for permission.

The heat licked across my gear as I stepped in fast, sweeping my flashlight beam across the room. Visibility was near zero. A coffee table was overturned. Something small and pink—a bra, maybe?—fluttered against the wall vent. Flames hadn’t breached the unit yet, but they were in the walls. I could hear them cracking, hungry.

“Fire department!” I called, voice muffled through my mask. “Call out if you can hear me!”

At first, nothing.

Then, a cough. Wet. Strangled.

I turned toward the sound and nearly tripped over her.

She was on the floor, hunched beside the couch, her body curled around a small black carrier like she thought it could protect her. Her long, dark curls were tangled and stuck to her face with sweat, and her entire body was shaking. Her hands, clenched white-knuckle tight on the carrier handle, didn’t budge when I crouched down.

“I’ve got you,” I said, reaching for her arm. “We need to move. Now.”

“No—Spitfire—” she coughed, barely able to get the name out. “She’s in—there—don’t leave her—”

I blinked through the haze. “You named your cat Spitfire?”

Her head bobbed in what might’ve been a nod or just sheer dizziness. “It fits.”

I couldn’t help it. I let out the quickest breath of a laugh. “Yeah. Bet it does.”

A piece of drywall popped behind us with a sharp crack, and the woman flinched, instinctively trying to shield the carrier with her whole body. She was coughing harder now, her grip unrelenting.

Stubborn as hell. Just my luck.

“Listen,” I said, leaning in. “I’m not leaving the cat, alright? But I can’t get either of you out if you don’t let me carry you.”

Her eyes met mine—bloodshot, panicked, but laser-sharp. She wasn’t scared of me. She was afraid of being left behind.

“Promise?” she rasped.

“On my life.”

She stared a second longer. Then, slowly, she nodded and released her grip.

I grabbed the carrier in one hand and her in the other, lifting her as gently as I could. She wasn’t heavy—more smoke than substance in that moment—but I could feel her trying to stay upright, to walk on her own despite her body barely cooperating.

“I’m Ofelia,” she muttered into my shoulder.

“Zach,” I answered. “Let’s get you the hell out of here.”

“Don’t drop the cat.” She weakly ordered.

“She’s practically a VIP at this point.” I smiled behind my mask.

The fire hadn’t broken through yet, but the air was closing in fast, thicker, hotter, more violent with every passing second. I pressed forward, clutching her tighter and shielding the cat carrier with my arm. Her breath came in wheezing gasps against my neck. Spitfire, appropriately named, yowled inside the box like she was leading the escape.

Ofelia didn’t pass out, not entirely, but by the time I burst into the stairwell, she’d gone limp against me. I radioed out, signaling we were evacuating with a live victim and one extremely vocal feline.

She’d tried to do everything on her own, even stayed behind for a damn cat. And I could already tell—this wasn’t going to be the last time Ofelia stormed into my life like a blaze I couldn’t contain.

The moment we cleared the threshold and hit the open air, the cold slapped us both like it had something to prove. October in Jersey wasn’t playing around tonight. The wind cut sharply, laced with that dry bite that whispered winter’s coming—and maybe start rethinking your fall jacket choices.

Luckily, I was sweating buckets inside full turnout gear. Not so much for the half-conscious woman in my arms.

Ofelia stirred as the fresh air hit her face, coughing hard into my shoulder. Her voice was scratchy, like it had been dragged across sandpaper, but she managed to croak out, “We made it?”

“We made it,” I confirmed, already heading toward the waiting ambulance. The crowd had parted when I came through, a mix of curiosity and concern rippling through the onlookers as they got a look at the soot-smeared woman and the angry feline in my other hand.

Spitfire was still yowling, rattling the carrier like she had opinions about everything that just happened—and she was planning to file a formal complaint.

Dez met us halfway, face flushed from the heat inside, but eyes wide as he took her in. “You good?” he asked, reaching for the carrier so I could adjust Ofelia’s weight.

“She wouldn’t leave the cat,” I said, half-laughing, half-winded. “Can’t tell if that makes her brave or insane.”

Dez grinned. “Both. Definitely both.”

The EMTs were already unfolding a stretcher, but Ofelia shook her head weakly. “No. No stretcher. I’m fine.”

“You inhaled a solid minute of smoke,” I said, crouching to help her sit on the back bumper of the rig. “You’re not fine. You’re fire-flavored.”

She cracked the smallest smile, still pale as hell, and leaned back on her hands like sitting up took every ounce of energy. “Spitfire okay?”

“She’s pissed, but breathing.” I handed the carrier to her gently, and she clutched it as if it were her firstborn, and I was the nurse who had just given her a burrito baby. “Honestly, she might outlive us all.”

Ofelia looked down at the cat through the mesh, and something in her expression softened. “She’s due any day. I was supposed to foster her for another two weeks before she delivers, and now she’s probably traumatized and—”

“Hey.” I crouched again and tugged off my helmet, and the cold hit my scalp instantly. I felt like a human rotisserie. “You got her out. That’s what matters.”

She blinked at me slowly, as if registering me for the first time. “You’re the one who carried me out?”

“Guilty. I’m Zach Dayton. Firehouse Nine.” I nodded.

“Ofelia Rosario. Grad student.” She said, still staring at me.

I couldn’t help it—I smiled. There was something about her, even half-scorched and windblown, that made me want to keep talking. Maybe it was the way she held that cat like the world revolved around it. Perhaps it was the fact that she hadn’t cried or panicked, even as the smoke closed in.

“Hospital’s gonna want to keep an eye on you,” I said, nodding to the EMT. “You up for a quick ride?”

She hesitated, then sighed and nodded. “Only if Spitfire comes, too.”

“Wouldn’t dream of separating you two,” I said, rising back to my feet. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

As they helped her up into the ambulance, I watched her cradle the carrier, whispering something to the cat as if Spitfire understood every word. And maybe she did. Hell, I’d seen stranger things on the job.

But something about this whole call lingered, even as I turned back to the scene, even as Dez slapped me on the back and Morales started barking about hose pressure. Ofelia Rosario wasn’t just another rescue.

She felt like the start of something. And judging by that fiery glare from inside the carrier? Her cat already hated me.

Perfect.

I stood there for a moment after the ambulance doors closed, watching the rig pull away with a low rumble and flashing lights that reflected off the puddles along the curb. The adrenaline hadn’t fully faded yet. It never did this quickly. Usually, it simmered for a while, settled in my bones like an old song I couldn’t turn off. But this time, the hum was different.

This time, it wasn’t just the fire I couldn’t stop thinking about.

It was her.

Ofelia Rosario. All fierce protectiveness and smoke-streaked sass. Even half-dazed, she’d had the presence of mind to bargain for her cat’s safety like it was non-negotiable. Most people in a fire just wanted out. She’d wanted Spitfire out first. The cat had claws, sure—but that girl had teeth.

She wasn’t a civilian I’d forget in a day. Not by a long shot.

“She’ll be alright?” Morales asked, joining me with a fresh bottle of water. “Heard she was conscious, just rattled.”

“Yeah,” I replied, taking the water. “She was holding on pretty strong.”

“Not to you,” Dez chimed in, grinning as he approached. “She was clutching that cat. You just got lucky.”

I shot him a look, but he laughed. “No offense, man, but that girl? Total cat mom. She practically hissed when you tried to take the carrier.”

“She was barely conscious and still threatened me if I dropped it,” I said, shaking my head. “Not my usual type.”

Dez nudged me. “Your usual type ghosted you after three dates. Maybe it’s time for a new flavor. She seemed feisty. Cute, too.”

“She was covered in ash.” I rolled my eyes

“So were you. Didn’t stop her from giving you googly eyes before she passed out.” Dez chuckled.

I didn’t respond, mostly because I couldn’t argue. There’d been a flicker of gratitude in her gaze, disbelief lingering as she processed being saved. I’d seen many faces, but hers held something different—something I couldn’t quite articulate.

“She’s probably a one-time rescue,” I said finally, more to myself than Dez. “I doubt I’ll see her again.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, tugging off his gloves. “Stranger things have happened. You might just run into her again.”

I looked down Reilly Street, where the last wisp of smoke was curling from the building’s scorched third floor. The crowd was gone now, the sirens fading into the night, the chaos already giving way to cleanup.

I told myself it was just another call. Just another girl. But deep down, I knew better. Something about Ofelia had already lit a spark. And I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to put it out.