Life wasn't a Rubik's cube, not even a game of chess. Dad's news was a total shock, and even though Harris' life was only 24 years short, 15 minutes wasn't enough time to re-process it. On top of it, the nurse bumbled around his room, checking his vitals and making him swallow pills. But, Harris decided, so long as she didn't prattle, and gave him his phone back, he welcomed her presence.

Once he did everything she asked, he cleared his throat. "Ma'am, can I trouble you for—"

Her ears pricked to the sound of someone else's voice calling from the hallway—so much for Sarkisian's family charm. Ignoring his puppy eyes, the nurse stuck her head through the door, leaving Harris with a view of scrubs stretched over her headless torso, butt and legs.

"—my phone," he pleaded.

"Yes, he is awake. You can talk to him, but don't tire him out," the nurse said to someone out there.

Talk to him, yes. Listen to him, nope.

Maybe whoever was in the hall was more interesting than his phone, anyway. The police could be at his door to chat about Oliver. What if they were already on his trail, and only Harris' crucial testimony stopped them from nabbing him? He should have asked Dad if Lonita was working this angle, but it felt out of place after his confession.

"My phone?" Harris called with a forlorn energy of a seagull.

Too late. The nurse squeezed herself out already, admitting—no, not the police—a visitor into Harris' room.

Police, huh? What was he thinking? This wasn't a cop show with the agents in the hot pursuit of justice.

Lt. Jung marched in, his freshly shaven head contributing the waft of Old Spice to the hospital bouquet of bleach and antiseptic. Instead of flowers, he carried a small laptop. "Good morning, Sarkisian."

Harris glanced at the unadorned walls, the IV tubes, and the thin blue blanket covering his legs. "Is it?"

"Better than dead." Jung plucked Harris' phone from the floor. "Where do you want this?"

"Anywhere I can reach it." This small kindness warmed Harris to Jung more than learning his parents' marriage was a Titanic when Jung came into the mix. "Ah... thanks."

Jung stuffed the phone into the holder on the bed's side. Harris caressed the dark screen with his glance. Were there any messages waiting—say, from a certain social influencer? However, Jung didn't come to the hospital to pick up the phones for him. With a sigh, he clenched his hands together. The phone could wait. There was probably nothing from Agatha anyway, because it was a late night in Singapore. Singapore was eleven hours ahead, so—

Stop it! She didn't message you for days. Why should she message you now?

He forced his glance to his boss' shiny forehead.

"Sarkisian, I'll level with you. I hate kicking a man when he is down, but you're in for it this time." Jung dropped into the only chair in the hospital room. The small space became as claustrophobic as an elevator. There was no avoiding Jung's hard gaze by simple tricks. It drew Harris in like a magnet. No wonder steel had the same color as his eyes, down to the metallic glint.

Since Harris had nothing to say, he didn't. His throat, his arm and his head throbbed more in the heavy silence.

"I covered for you a lot. All the dumb shit we all do when we're full of piss and blaster. I know your situation, and I empathize," Jung said after the pause ran its course.

And you banged my mother, so we're even. Harris tried not to think this too loudly, because he had the opposite of a poker face.

"But your last stint, that's too serious to cover up. You're in for it this time."

"Thank you for your honesty, Sir. And for... for before. I know I screwed up, and I don't expect you to stick your neck out for me." He never did.

Jung shrugged, as uncomfortable as Harris had ever seen him. "There's going to be a hearing. A reprimand will go on your permanent record as a minimum."

"I understand it, Sir. I love this job and will do anything to keep it." The words sounded so hollow, Harris winced. "I didn't put it right. This job is my soul. It really is my soul." He peered into Jung's steely eyes, hoping for a glimmer of compassion.

"I always had this impression, Sarkisian."

Something flickered below the surface there, but what? Harris stares at his boss, for once not worried if he was giving himself away. "I became exhausted by life, but I'll do better."

He needed his job far more than the job needed him. It went beyond salary, beyond the benefits, beyond the lifestyle. He needed it to live on, since his phone had no new messages.

"The week before this shit went down, I thought you finally had it together." Jung shook his bald head ruefully. "On the upside, it means there's hope for you yet. Right?"

"Right. Thank you." He never thanked Jung this many times in a row, but what the heck. "Really thank you very much Sir."

"Don't thank me yet. You're off active duty for the time being. Colin is our Union rep, so he'll get you prepped for the hearing." Jung titled his head to one shoulder. "If you want a piece of advice—"

"I do, Sir."

"The paper-pushers always like it when guys go to counseling on their own initiative."

"Thank you for the visit, Sir. And for your advice." Jung said 'counseling' like it was a bad word, but was it, really? With everything going on, talking to some psych major couldn't possibly hurt him. Not that he hoped for a healing experience when he didn't even have to post on the 'am-I-an-asshole?' message boards to find out if he were.

Harris choked down a stifling obstruction in his throat. "How... How's everyone at the station?"

Jung's steel eyes narrowed to slits. "Nobody's hurt because of your extreme dumbassness, if that's what you want to know."

"Yes, I did." He watched his hands crumple the blue blanket. The IV tubes trembled with each squeeze. "I'm glad to hear that. I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that!"

Part of him also wanted to know how much of that ceiling collapsed, who was in the building and stuff. Jung was the guy to ask after these details. He would put everything in a dry, precise manner. It would be ninety-nine percent accurate, because only God had it 100% right.

Harris drew a deep breath in. "Ah, one more—"

The last thing he'd seen in his burning house blew up in his mind to nightmarish proportions.

A beam in flames crushed down on his head like a weapon of apocalypse. The beep on the monitor behind his back sped up, its urgent rhythm blending in with the vision. IV tubes jerked at the bag as his fists clenched, but the liquid dripped as steadily as before. He focused on its rhythm to fight the delirium. He was just dopey and tormented by a memory. He could beat it.

"I... I should have asked about the guys first, Sir."

He couldn't hear the words as they came out. Maybe he said nothing, because his lungs were too hollow to supply the oxygen needed for the task. Sweat broke all over him, adding stinging to the aches. He clenched and unclenched his hands till his fingers spasmed, squeezed his eyes and opened them. Tried to shake his head, but it swam.

The tiny hospital room filled with smoke. Horizontal threads of it stitched one wall to the other. They were at the ceiling level first, then the gray net dropped on him. From a tiny crack in the ceiling's corner, someone cackled.

"Show yourself," Harris croaked.

A miniature fire angel climbed out of the crack. A seraph! The creature strolled upside down on the ceiling, bowing and flapping his wings. It was too far from Harris to distinguish his facial features, but he had to be Oliver Appleby.

"F-fire!"

"I'll call in the nurse." Jung frowned and got up. "You look green around the gills"

Seraph disappeared back into the crack. Smoke thinned out, and Harris took another breath. "Just... a reaction to meds."

Meds, trauma, broken heart, everything. He'd work through it with a counselor. "Th-thank you, Sir. For the visit."

Jung rolled his shoulders, like he was also feeling the weight of the world there, then huffed. "Trust me, this was the best part of my day. It's off to the City Council now with the Captain. Apparently, we need to prove that Milwaukee requires more than one firefighter on staff, even if he races fireballs and props up burning buildings with his dumb head."

Harris was too sick to figure out if it was a scorn or a veiled accolade, but maybe if he was famous, he wouldn't get fired. Please, let it be so. That was all he had left.

The nurse rushed in and made a fuss.

Harris closed his eyes to just wait out the hallucination and the nurse's zig-zagging, but dropped into the well of oblivion.

When he came to, he fumbled for his phone. Nothing from Agatha, but there were a dozen messages that said more than words on the screen. He brought the phone to his lips and re-dialed her number.

"Hi there, stranger." Her breath came in rattling gasps, like she was crying without sobs.

"Hi, Mom. Mom, it's me. I'm an idiot."

Did anything else need to be said? Probably not, but the conversation plodded along, wound through the events big and small, past and present, for an hour.

Afterwards, his hands were shaking as if trying to hold on to something he won back. He'd never had so little left to hold on to. So precious, yet so little.

Once his hospital stay—courtesy of the Milwaukee Fire Department—was over, he would be homeless. But Dad has a place to stay.

His job was hanging by a thread. But he tied a knot at the end, or so it felt.

Harris cradled his phone, warmed by a long conversation. He could check Ablaze's media.

He could...

With a shaking hand, he woke the phone after it turned off. Then he did it again. And one more time. In the end, with Agatha peering at him from the background picture, he shoved it back into the holder on the side of the bed. A numb sensation cramped his finger joints whenever he tried to tap the Instagram icon.

He had so little left, there was no point diminishing it further.

In the end, he couldn't.