Jodie Picoult - My Sister's Keeper

In a bowl, I crack a dozen eggs and start to whip them into a frenzy. The bacon's already spitting on the stove; the griddle's heating for pancakes. Firemen eat together—or at least we try to, before the bells ring. This breakfast will be a treat for my guys, who are still showering away the memories of last night from their skin. Behind me, I hear the fall of footsteps. "Pull up a chair," I call over my shoulder. "It's almost ready."

"Oh, thanks, but no," says a female voice. "I wouldn't want to impose." I turn around, brandishing my spatula. The sound of a woman here is surprising; one who's shown up just shy of seven A.M. is even more remarkable. She is small, with wild hair that makes me think of a forest fire. Her hands are covered with winking silver rings. "Captain Fitzgerald, I'm Julia Romano. I'm the guardian ad litem assigned to Anna's case."

Sara's told me about her-the woman the judge will listen to, when push comes to shove.

"Smells great," she says, smiling. She walks up and takes the spatula out of my hand. "I can't watch someone cook without helping. It's a genetic abnormality." I watch her reach into the fridge, rummaging around. Of all things, she comes back with a jar of horseradish. "I was hoping you might have a few minutes to talk."

"Sure." Horseradish?

She adds a good wad of the stuff to the eggs, and then pulls orange zest off the spice rack, along with some chili powder, and sprinkles this on as well. "How's Kate doing?"

I pour a circle of batter on the griddle, watch it come to a bubble. When I flip it, it's an even, creamy brown. I've already spoken to Sara this morning. Kate's night was uneventful; Sara's wasn't. But that's because of Jesse.

There is a moment during a structure fire when you know you are either going to get the upper hand, or that it's going to get the upper hand on you. You notice the ceiling patch about to fall and the staircase eating itself alive and the synthetic carpet glued to the soles of your boots. The sum of the parts overwhelms, and that's when you back out and force yourself to remember that every fire will burn itself out, even without your help.

These days, I'm fighting fire on six sides. I look in front of me and see Kate sick I look behind me and see Anna with her lawyer. The only time Jesse isn't drinking like a fish, he's strung out on drugs; Sara's grasping at straws. And me, I've got my gear on, safe. I'm holding dozens of hooks and irons and poles-all tools that are meant to destroy, when what I need is something to rope us together.

"Captain Fitzgerald … Brian!" Julia Romano's voice knocks me out of my own head, into a kitchen that's rapidly filling with smoke. She reaches past me and shoves the pancake that's burning off the griddle.

"Jesus!" I drop the charcoal disk that used to be a pancake into the sink, where it hisses at me. "I'm sorry."

Like open sesame, those two simple words change the landscape. "Good thing we've got the eggs," Julia Romano says.

In a burning house, your sixth sense kicks in. You can't see, because of the smoke. You can't hear, because fire roars loud. You can't touch, because it will be the end of you.

In front of me, Paulie manned the nozzle. A line of firefighters backed him up; a charged hose was a thick, dead weight. We worked our way up the stairs, still intact, intent on shoving this fire out the hole Red had put in the roof. Like anything that's confined, fire has a natural instinct to escape.

I got down on my hands and knees and started to crawl through the hallway. The mother said it was the third door on the left. The fire rolled along the other side of the ceiling, racing to the vent. As the spray attacked, white steam swallowed the other firefighters.

The door to the child's room was open. I crawled in calling her name. A larger shape at the window drew me like a magnet, but it turned out to be an oversized stuffed animal. I checked the closets and under the bed, too, but nobody was there.

I backed into the hallway again and nearly tripped over the hose, fist-thick. A human could think; a fire couldn't. A fire would follow a specific path; a child might not. Where would I have gone if I were terrified?

Moving fast, I started poking my head into doorways. One was pink, a baby's room. Another had Matchbox cars all over the floor and bunk beds. One was not a room at all, but a closet. The master bedroom was on the far side of the staircase.

If I were a kid, I'd want my mother.

Unlike the other bedrooms, this one was leaking thick, black smoke. Fire had burned a seam at the bottom of the door. I opened it, knowing I was going to let in air, knowing it was the wrong thing to do and the only choice I had.

Predictably, the smoldering line ignited, flame filling the doorway. I charged through it like a bull, feeling embers rain down the back of my helmet and coat. "Luisa!" I yelled out. I felt my way around the perimeter of the room, found the closet. I knocked hard and called again.

It was faint, but there was definitely a knock back.

"We've been lucky," I tell Julia Romano, quite possibly the last words she'd ever expect to hear me say. "Sara's sister watches the kids if it's going to be a long haul. For shorter runs, we swap off—you know, Sara stays with Kate one night at the hospital, and I go home to the other kids, or vice versa. It's easier now. They're old enough to take care of themselves."

She writes something down in her little book when I say that, and it makes me squirm in my seat. Anna's only thirteen-is that too young to stay alone in a house? Social Services might say so, but Anna's different. Anna grew up years ago.

"Do you think Anna's doing okay?" Julia asks.

"I don't think she would have filed a lawsuit if she was." I hesitate. "Sara says she wants attention."

"What do you think?"

To buy time, I take a forkful of eggs. The horseradish turned out to be surprisingly good. It brings out the orange. I tell Julia Romano this.

She folds her napkin next to her own plate. "You didn't answer my question, Mr. Fitzgerald."

"I don't think it's that simple." I very carefully set my silverware down. "Do you have brothers or sisters?"

"Both. Six older brothers and a twin sister."

I whistle. "Your parents must have a hell of a lot of patience."

She shrugs. "Good Catholics. I don't know how they did it, either, but none of us fell through the cracks."

"Did you always think so?" I ask. "Did you ever feel, when you were a kid, that maybe they were playing favorites?" Her face tightens, just the tiniest bit, and I feel bad about putting her on the spot. "We all know you're supposed to love your kids equal, but that's not always how it works out." I get to my feet. "You got a little extra time? There's someone I'd like you to meet."

Last winter we got an ambulance call in the dead of winter for a guy who lived up a rural road. The contractor he hired to plow his driveway had found him and called 911; apparently the guy had gotten out of his car the night before, slipped, and froze right to the gravel; the contractor nearly ran over him, thinking he was a drift.

When we got to the scene, he'd been outside for nearly eight hours, and he was nothing more than an ice cube with no pulse. His knees were bent; I remember this, because when we finally pried him out and set him on a backboard, there they were, sticking straight up in the air. We got the heat cranked in the ambulance and brought him inside, starting to cut off his clothes. By the time we had our paperwork in order for the hospital transport, the guy was sitting up and talking to us.

I tell you this to show you that in spite of what you'd think, miracles happen.

It's a cliche, but the reason I became a firefighter in the first place was because I wanted to save people. So the moment I emerged from the fiery arched doorway with Luisa in my arms, when her mother first saw us and fell to her knees, I knew I had done my job and done it well. She swooped down beside the EMT from the second crew who got a line into the girl's arm and put her on oxygen. The kid was coughing, frightened, but she would be fine.