Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
In the middle of one of her follow-ups about after-hours custodial access, the station’s fire alarm goes off. I knew a test was scheduled for today, but my mind knowing and my body knowing are two separate things.
The shrill sound erupts overhead, too sudden in the enclosed space, and every muscle locks. My shoulders jerk, and I grip the edge of the table before I realize I’m doing it. For one ugly second, the room goes white at the edges, just enough to lose the shape of where I am.
Heat surrounds me, and there’s nowhere to go. A burst of noise over comms. Light strobing against metal. The helpless surge that says move, move, move, when there’s nowhere good to move to.
CHAPTER 15
CALDER
“Calder?” Elena’s voice reaches me through the haze.
I blink, and the kitchen comes back into focus. Table, chairs, fluorescent lights, alarm still sounding overhead. Elena still across from me at the table, her hands folded, and her face more alert than frightened.
I force myself to let go of the table. “Routine test.” My voice comes out flatter than I want. “They said they were doing it tonight.”
She keeps her eyes on my face, not my white-knuckled hand or my shoulders, and if she notices my shallow breathing, she ignores it. “That’s good to know,” she says.
The alarm cuts off a few seconds later, leaving a ringing echo in its wake.
I expect us to pick up our conversation about the school, but instead, Elena tilts her head and says, “T.J.’s had nightmares recently. Not every night, but more than a few times.”
She changes the subject with such a light touch, I almost don’t notice.
I sit back in my chair, relaxing a couple of clenched muscles. “About the fire?”
“Not overtly, but I think that’s the cause.” Her eyes stay on mine, calm and curious, but not prying. “He doesn’t usually want to talk about them in any detail. Sometimes he wakes up upset and can’t explain why.” She wets her lips once. “I wondered if you knew any techniques that help with … stress responses, I guess.”
Stress responses.
Not trauma, not PTSD. Not what just happened right in front of her.
“Consistency helps,” I say. “Routine at bedtime, lights the same, noise the same, if you can manage it. Something solid for him to focus on when he wakes up. Not just comfort, but specific things.”
“Like what?”
I focus on the table between us. “Counting things. Naming objects in the room. Cold water on his hands. Focused breathing, if he’ll do it.”
“Grounding,” she says. When I meet her eyes, she nods slightly. “That’s what Tyler used to need when he came home wound tight after training or deployment. He wouldn’t always say much, but there were things he did. Routines.”
There it is. The man who’s been here in the room with us, whether she mentions him or not.
“What kinds of things?” I ask.
“He liked structure.” A faint smile crosses her face, then fades. “Lists and order helped. Physical tasks. He’d reorganize the garage, clean tools that were already clean, go for runs after dark, check locks twice.” She looks down at her hands. “Sometimes three times.”
I know that life too well.
“When T.J. has a bad night, I find myself doing the same things with him, giving him concrete details, telling him what day it is, where he is, what’s going to happen in the morning.”
“That’s good.”
She looks back up at me. “It’s best when I stay calm.”
I almost say that’s true of everything, but instead, I say, “Kids probably read tone before they understand words.”
Her eyes stay on mine. “Adults do, too.”
She says it softly, and it still hits the mark.
For a second, I consider changing the subject back to the school and pretending the alarm didn’t bother me. Pretending nothing bothers me. But then I’d be lying in answer to a question this woman is too kind to ask.
“I knew the fire alarm was coming, and it still unhinged me.”
“I thought it did,” she says gently.
I trace invisible patterns on the table with my finger. “Sometimes my body reacts before my head does. It hasn’t happened much for a while, but I had a bad reaction on a house fire call a few days ago.”
Her expression doesn’t change. There’s no pity or sympathy there, only a calm understanding.
“It used to be worse … before.” I don’t know why I keep talking. Maybe because she isn’t pushing, and like Buck and Weston, she’s someone who understands, at least to some extent.
“What helps you … when you notice it happening?”
No one’s ever asked about it that way. Not are you okay or why do you think it happens. Not do you want to talk about it. What helps.
I run my thumb over an old scar on the side of my index finger. “Movement, structure, focusing on specific tasks, and knowing what comes next.”