“Where is Harold Brennan?” the chief asked, and the entire room went silent. The young coordinator turned pale as she checked her papers again. She finally admitted that Harold’s name wasn’t on the list. The chief stared at her in disbelief. “He’s not on the list because he built the list. Every truck in this building runs because of him.” Chairs scraped backward as firefighters began standing one after another.

Outside, I was beside Dad’s old pickup with my hand resting against the window when the station doors opened. The chief walked across the gravel carrying a small wooden box. Behind him came every firefighter from the ceremony. Dad looked around, completely confused. “Harold, we’ve searched this whole building for you,” the chief said, his voice trembling. Then he held out the box. “Do you know what’s inside this?” Dad slowly shook his head.

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