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Roy
stood motionless in front of the open closet door in the engine bay, leaning
against the mop he had withdrawn moments earlier. The sight of the empty
space on the shelf where Gage’s helmet should have been caught his gaze and
he was unable to tear his eyes from it. Johnny’s helmet had been lost on his
last rescue, sucked under the oozing mud along with a young boy Johnny had
tried to rescue, both now gone forever. The odd thought crossed Roy’s mind
that maybe one day hundreds of years from now some archaeologist would find
the helmet. His eyes lowered to the hooks below, which held Johnny’s turnout coat. The name ‘Gage’ on the back was faded and barely visible against the well worn and heavily soiled cloth. Roy stared sadly at the coat, memories of rescues and fires fought side by side with Johnny flowing into him. He’d never work with him again. Johnny’s career was over; Roy knew that. Every time he thought of it, he was overcome with a mixture of deep sadness and anger. It was so unjust. |
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Guest Dispatchers Stories by Ocean
