Letters in Time, Reiss Susan [read me a book TXT] 📗

got closer, the motion got faster and the pressure on my leg grew.  I froze.

Oh no! It was happening.

A flashback.  The fire, the danger, triggered it. Post-Traumatic Stress had kicked in. The therapist, the one for my head, had warned me about it. Knowing what was happening didn’t make it any less scary.

I didn't remember anything of the accident—from the moment of impact to the moment I woke up blinded by red, white and blue lights, strapped to a gurney, drowning in pain—my brain harbored the memory. A trigger might be seeing a car accident or a disabled vehicle off to the side of the road. Or hearing sirens.

I was reacting to the sirens. The therapist told me what to do, how to hold on to what was happening in the present. Somehow, I forced myself to stop rubbing my leg. I leaned back to get more comfortable. Then I closed my eyes and started to breathe. Deeply. Slowly. I concentrated on the air, drawing it in, blowing it out. I felt my muscles begin to release their tight grip. The sirens were louder. People were coming to handle the danger. I didn't have to do anything. When the bright red, shiny trucks pulled up, their emergency lights flashing, all the activity distracted me from my buried memories.

The trucks stopped on the road bordering the field, leaving an opening as a gateway into the field. A bull of a truck roared down the road, turned to the gateway, and plowed into the cornfield. Its high bumper smashed cornstalks as the truck moved relentlessly toward the fire. A light mist settled on the windshield. An emergency crew was firing a hefty stream of water around the flames to create a soggy barrier. It wasn't long before the roiling smoke seemed to ease.

TJ came over and leaned against his open door. He shot me a look filled with questions. Instead, I asked him what was happening.

"That's a brush truck," he explained. "They'll drive in a circle around the fire, knocking down plants and laying a blanket of water. That will help keep the flames from spreading." He hiked himself up on the truck's running board, wet his finger then held it high above his head. "But the wind's picking up. They need to hurry to focus in on the flames and knock it all out."

We watched and waited, along with others standing next to their trucks parked along the road. So many people had been drawn to the field by the smoke and the radio calls. An emergency radio crackled and a crew by a pumper truck moved around to prepare for action. The massive brush truck lumbered out of the field and took on another load of water so it could go back to work.

The adrenaline rush of the first discovery of the fire was bleeding off. I began to think about getting home.

TJ took off his cap and smoothed his hair back.  “I think it’s going to be all right. They’re getting it under control. These guys train for this kind of thing.”

"Guys?" I pointed to a woman, as thin as a wisp in a turnout coat that almost engulfed her.

TJ nodded.  “Point taken, but I bet she’d think it was a compliment to be called one of the guys.”

He was probably right. But something was wrong. I hadn’t known him very long, but I half expected him to have a snappy comeback about the whole female-in-a-male-dominated-job thing.  Something was bothering him, so I waited quietly to find out what it was.

He took off his cap again and wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. He raised his chin. "The wind is freshening, probably from that thunderstorm. It's changing direction, too." He checked the shape of his hat’s brim. "It will be okay if they can knock it down," he said more to himself than to me. "There's something about this field…" He whacked his hat against his arm, then put it on again and pulled it down tight. "But I'll be darned if I can remember." He leaned against the door and crossed his arms while he watched the action in the field.

A truck flew up the road and careened to the gateway into the field, fishtailing and gouging tracks in the soil. He stopped and a man got out yelling and waving his arms. He ran to a knot of firefighters.

TJ straightened up. “That’s Johnny. This is his field. Something’s wrong.” He unfolded his arms. “That’s it! The shed in those trees.  It’s got chemicals in it.” TJ ran toward the firefighters.

I couldn't hear what Johnny was saying, but it didn't look good. His arms flew around. He pointed to the trees and back to the fire in the middle of the cornfield and back again. The firefighters' heads swiveled around as they followed his gestures until everyone's attention settled on a place at the far side of the field.

The firefighting unit scrambled in controlled chaos. Three men hustled together to consult. Someone picked up a microphone. Radios crackled. Crew members, wearing heavy turnout coats and protective helmets, scrambled back to their trucks. One truck stayed in place, ready to replenish the brush truck with gallons of water. Others jockeyed around in a coordinated maneuver to move toward the trees where Johnny was pointing.

I was so distracted by all the activity that I didn’t see a puff of thick smoke until it engulfed the truck. In the backseat, Ghost coughed and sneezed. The wind had changed. I reached over and flipped the ignition key to Accessory.  I wanted to close the windows, but Ghost kept poking his head