Chapter 5 - THE FIREHOUSE FAMILY
I pressed the green button and held the phone to my ear.
"Ryan? Is that you, buddy?" Captain Higgins' booming, deep voice echoed through the speaker.
"Captain Higgins, it's Erin," I said, keeping my voice as steady as humanly possible. "Ryan's sister."
"Oh, hey, Erin! How's our little survivor doing?" Higgins asked warmly, his voice genuine and full of concern. "The whole engine company has been praying for little Riley. We're taking up a collection down at the station to buy her that giant electric toy fire truck she wanted."
My throat felt painfully tight. "She's... she's recovering well, Captain. Thank you."
"Listen, is Ryan there?" Higgins continued. "Detective Miller from the police department came by the station about twenty minutes ago. She was asking some weird questions about shift schedules from last Saturday, and she wanted to look at the Narcan logs for Engine 3."
I held my breath, my heart hammering like a trapped bird against my ribs. "What did you tell her, Captain?"
"I told her Engine 3 was off-duty during Pop's party, obviously," Higgins said, a slight pause entering his voice, his tone shifting into something more guarded. "But... Erin, Miller was asking specifically about Ryan's medical leave records from spring. She asked if he had been prescribed heavy narcotics after his spinal surgery."
I looked down at Ryan sitting on the floor, his head bowed, his hands shaking in his lap.
"Captain," I whispered, stepping out into the hallway so Ryan wouldn't hear me. "I need to tell you something. And I need you to promise me you won't hang up."
"Erin, what's going on?" Higgins asked, his voice instantly dropping its jovial tone, replacing it with the sharp, authoritative edge of an experienced fire captain. "Is Ryan in trouble?"
"Ryan didn't save Riley from a stranger's pill, Captain," I choked out, tears running down my face. "The pill dropped out of Ryan's jacket pocket. He's been buying street oxys since June because his surgical pain management was cut off."
Absolute, suffocating silence fell over the phone line. I could hear the background chatter of the firehouse radio, the distant hum of an engine idling in the bay, but Higgins didn't say a word for ten agonizing seconds.
"Captain?" I sobbed quietly. "Are you still there?"
"Where is he right now, Erin?" Higgins asked, his voice low, stern, and entirely flat.
"He's at his apartment," I said. "He wants help, Captain. He tried to quit cold turkey last night and he's sick. He tried to get into a rehab facility this morning, but the intake lines told him there are no beds available."
"Stay right there," Higgins commanded firmly. "Don't touch anything. Don't answer the door for anyone except me. I'm coming over right now."
Twenty minutes later, a heavy red department SUV pulled up to the curb outside Ryan's apartment building.
Captain Higgins stepped out, accompanied by Lieutenant Markowski—a twenty-year veteran of the department who had trained Ryan when he was a rookie. Both men were in uniform, their faces grim and set like granite.
They walked up the stairs, entered the apartment, and stepped into Ryan's bedroom.
Ryan looked up from the floor, saw his commanding officer standing in the doorway, and buried his face in his hands, weeping out of pure, unadulterated shame.
"Captain... I'm sorry," Ryan choked out. "I ruined everything. I'm sorry."
Captain Higgins didn't yell. He didn't issue a reprimand. He walked over, dropped to his heavy knees on the hardwood floor right beside Ryan, and wrapped his huge, calloused arms around my brother's trembling shoulders, pulling him into a tight, powerful embrace.
"Shut up, Miller," Higgins whispered, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Just shut your mouth. You're our brother. We don't leave a brother in a burning building, and we aren't leaving you in this one."
Lieutenant Markowski walked over to the floor, picked up the blue pill and the crumpled foil, wrapped them in a heavy paper napkin, and put them in his pocket. He looked at me with a steady, unbreakable expression.
"There's a private recovery retreat in New Hampshire," Markowski said softly to me. "It's run by retired first responders. It's off the books, no insurance paper trails, no state database listings. The department keeps an emergency welfare fund for situations like this. We're taking him there today."
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"What about Detective Miller?" I asked, my voice shaking. "She's tracing Apex's phone logs right now."
Higgins stood up, helping Ryan to his feet. "Let me handle Detective Miller. First responders take care of their own. Ryan, go pack a bag. You're getting clean."
