Chapter 9 - The Dawn after the Fire
Twenty minutes later, the street outside Cole Meridian was a sea of flashing red and blue lights.
Three fire engines, two ambulances, and four police cruisers lined the avenue. Firefighters in heavy gear were dragging yellow hoses through the grand lobby doors, though the fire had already been contained to the fifth-floor electrical junction.
Sitting on the back bumper of the lead ambulance, wrapped in a bright yellow thermal shock blanket, was Vivian Cole.
Beside her sat Eli. He was completely unharmed, wearing my oversized maintenance jacket, drinking a small juice box that a paramedic had handed him.
I was sitting on a folding chair nearby, an oxygen mask pulled down around my neck, coughing as a young female paramedic wiped soot off my face and checked my lungs with a stethoscope.
“Lungs sound clear, Mr. Brennan,” the paramedic said, smiling softly. “You got some smoke, but you’re going to be fine.”
“Told you,” I grunted softly. “Takes more than a little fifth-floor wire smoke to knock out a janitor.”
Footsteps came running across the wet asphalt.
It was Danny.
He had driven thirty miles from Joliet the second he heard the news on the emergency radio app. He ran past the police tape, ignoring a officer who tried to stop him, and didn't slow down until he was standing right in front of my chair.
Danny stared at my soot-stained face. His hands were shaking slightly.
“Dad,” Danny said, his voice thick with uncharacteristic emotion.
I pulled the oxygen mask off completely, stood up from the chair, and wrapped my big, dirty arms around my son.
“I’m alright, Dan,” I said, patting his heavy back. “I’m alright. The building’s still standing, and everybody’s safe.”
Danny held onto my shoulder tightly, nodding his head against my chest.
Vivian stood up from the back of the ambulance, holding Eli’s small hand. She walked over to where Danny and I were standing.
She didn't speak as a CEO. She didn't speak as a billionaire.
She reached out and took my right hand—the hand that was burned and bruised from prying open the oak door—and held it between both of hers.
“You saved my son’s life today, Dale,” she said, tears cutting clean paths through the soot on her face. “Not just his mind. His life.”
Little Eli let go of his mother’s coat.
He walked over to me, stopped right in front of my soot-covered steel-toed boots, and looked up into my face for the first time in six months.
He didn't cover his ears. He didn't hide behind a blanket.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small, shiny yellow gear from his construction toy, and held it out to me in his tiny palm.
I lowered myself down onto one knee on the damp street, taking the small plastic gear from his hand.
“Thank you, Eli,” I whispered gently. “This is the finest piece of equipment I ever owned.”
Eli looked at me, his deep dark eyes clear and steady.
Then, slowly, his tiny mouth opened.
“D... Dale,” Eli said.
It was a small, high, fragile sound—barely louder than a whisper in the cold autumn air.
May you like
Vivian gasped, covering her mouth with both hands, collapsing to her knees beside us on the pavement, sobbing openly.
It was the first word Eli Cole had spoken in three years.
