PART 2
The fire had started inside an old furniture warehouse on the east side.
According to Ortega, the building had been partially condemned months earlier, but several units in the back were still being used illegally for storage.
When the first crews arrived, smoke was already pouring through the roof.
Cole’s team entered with another unit to search the second floor.
Twenty minutes later, part of the interior structure failed.
A steel support came down.
Then a section of ceiling followed.
Most of the firefighters cleared the collapse zone.
Cole didn’t.
Something struck him hard enough to knock him to the floor.
“He was awake when EMS took him,” Ortega told me.
I stared at him.
“Was he talking?”
“Yes.”
“Could he move?”
“Megan—”
“Could he move?”
“He was talking. He knew where he was. That’s all I can tell you for certain.”
I grabbed my purse.
“Why didn’t anyone call me?”
“We did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
My phone was already in my hand.
I unlocked it so quickly I nearly dropped it.
No missed calls.
No voicemails.
No texts from the department.
Nothing.
Ortega frowned.
Then he walked into his office and returned with a clipboard.
He flipped through several pages.
When he found Cole’s personnel form, his face tightened.
“What?”
He turned the page toward me.
The emergency contact number beside my name ended in 7742.
I hadn’t used that number since we switched carriers nearly two years earlier.
My current number ended in 1186.
For a moment, I could only stare.
All morning, people had apparently been trying to tell me my husband had been injured.
And I had been driving around town buying balloons.
The absurdity of it made me feel sick.
“I’m going to the hospital.”
“I’ll drive you,” Ortega said.
“No.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I said I’m going.”
He started to argue.
I turned toward the door.
That was when I realized I was still holding the balloon ribbons.
I stared up at them.
Gold stars.
Black circles.
One balloon with HAPPY BIRTHDAY! printed across it in giant letters.
They suddenly looked obscene.
I walked back to the table, untangled the ribbons from my wrist, and laid them beside the cake.
Marcus quietly took the ridiculous firefighter trophy from my other hand.
Nobody made a joke.
I left the station without saying goodbye.
The drive to Mercy General should have taken fourteen minutes.
I have no idea how long it actually took.
Every red light felt personal.
Every slow car felt like an attack.
My hands hurt from gripping the steering wheel.
My mind kept replaying the kitchen that morning.
Cole drinking coffee.
Cole checking for his keys.
Cole kissing me.
Please behave today.
Love you.
I suddenly hated how casually I had answered him.
As though there would always be another morning.
Another goodbye.
Another chance to say it better.
At the hospital, I parked badly enough that one tire was almost touching the painted line.
I ran through the emergency entrance and rushed to the front desk.
“My husband is a firefighter. Cole Barrett. Cedar Ridge Fire Department.”
The nurse typed something.
Then looked up.
“He’s been moved upstairs.”
“Is that good?”
She softened immediately.
“Yes. He’s stable.”
Stable.
I nearly cried over one word.
A hospital employee led me through two corridors and into an elevator.
When the doors opened, I saw a firefighter sitting outside a room.
He recognized me and stood.
“Meg.”
I barely acknowledged him.
I went straight inside.
And there he was.
Cole.
Alive.
That was the first thing I registered.
Not the bandages.
Not the bruising.
Not the sling holding his right arm against his chest.
Not the purple swelling beginning beneath one eye.
Alive.
His eyes opened when I entered.
For a second, we simply stared at each other.
Then he gave me the smallest smile.
“Hey, trouble.”
Something inside me snapped.
“You are unbelievable.”
His smile faded slightly.
“That bad, huh?”
I walked to his bed.
“You went to work this morning.”
“I usually do.”
“Don’t.”
“Okay.”
“You kissed me goodbye like it was a normal day.”
His expression softened.
“It was a normal day when I left.”
“And now you look like you lost a fight with a building.”
“That’s… surprisingly accurate.”
I stared at him.
Then I started crying.
Not graceful tears.
Not movie tears.
The kind where your face hurts and you can’t catch your breath.
Cole reached toward me with his uninjured hand.
I took it and bent over him.
“You scared me half to death.”
“I’m sorry.”
I kissed his forehead carefully.
“You should be.”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you are absolutely not okay.”
“I’m going to be.”
I looked at him.
That was different.
That was something I could believe.
“Fine,” I whispered. “You’re going to be.”
The doctor arrived not long afterward.
Cole had a fractured collarbone, several cracked ribs, a moderate concussion, and a deep cut near his hairline that required stitches.
No spinal injury.
No internal bleeding.
No surgery expected.
He would stay overnight for observation.
The doctor used phrases like fortunate, good outcome, and could have been significantly worse.
Every time he said one, I squeezed Cole’s hand harder.
Once we were alone again, Cole looked at me.
“How did you even find out?”
I stared at him.
“I went to your station.”
His face immediately changed.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Megan.”
“I had a cake.”
He shut his eyes.
“Oh God.”
“And balloons.”
His mouth twitched.
“How many?”
“Enough to destroy your dignity.”
He gave a weak laugh and immediately grabbed his ribs.
“Don’t make me laugh.”
“You deserve pain.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say to an injured man.”
“I also bought you a trophy.”
He opened one eye.
“What kind of trophy?”
I folded my arms.
“World’s Most Stubborn Firefighter.”
He thought about it.
“That seems medically accurate.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
For a few minutes, the fear loosened its grip.
Then I remembered something.
Ortega’s face.
The strange way he had looked at me.
The question he had asked.
Nobody reached you?
But there had been something else behind it.
Something I hadn’t understood.
I looked at Cole.
“Your captain acted weird when I showed up.”
Cole went still.
“He told you about the collapse?”
“Yes.”
“But that wasn’t all of it.”
His eyes shifted toward the window.
There it was.
The look every married person recognizes instantly.
Guilt.
I leaned forward.
“Cole.”
He sighed.
“What?”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
“My face currently has a concussion.”
“Cole Barrett.”
He stared at the blanket.
I waited.
Finally, he muttered,
“The building had supposedly been cleared.”
“Supposedly?”
He didn’t answer.
My stomach tightened again.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
