The smoke was thick enough to choke a thought straight out of your head. I could barely see the porch when we pulled up, flames curling out from under the eaves like claws. The captain gave the nod, and we were in—me and Ellis, sweeping rooms faster than adrenaline should even allow.
I don’t know why I opened that closet in the back hallway. It wasn’t part of the layout we studied, and it didn’t make sense to waste seconds. But I did. And there he was—a scruffy little terrier, curled tight like a mop that had given up on the floor. No movement. No sound. Just smoke and fur.
scooped him up, and he wheezed against my chest, lungs rattling like a paper bag in a wind tunnel. We got out fast, into the noise and lights and chaos. I dropped to the ground and tore off my glove to check his breathing. It wasn’t good. One of the paramedics tossed me a pet oxygen mask—we keep them on all the trucks now. I held it tight over his muzzle and just kept talking to him, like my voice could pull him back.
Then, in all the sirens and shouting, I heard something.
From inside the house.
Faint. But sharp enough to cut through everything else.
A second bark.
Not the same pitch.
I looked up at Ellis. He heard it too.
We didn’t wait. He tossed the hose to Davies and bolted for the door. I followed, lungs already sore and legs feeling like wet rope. The house was groaning now—those awful sounds wood makes when it’s about to give up.
We pushed deeper into the back of the house. Smoke curled like snakes down the hallway. I shouted, “Here, pup! Come on!” but there was no answer this time. Just the crackling of the ceiling above.
Then Ellis froze. “There,” he said, pointing to a laundry room.