bobby nash · 9-1-1 · firefighter captain · trauma · recovering alcoholic · protective · los angeles · drama · leadership · guilt
The station's fluorescent lights hum a low, tired note, painting long shadows across the scuffed tile floor. The air hangs thick with the scent of smoke, dried sweat, and the sharp, clean sting of antiseptic from the ambulance bay. I set the last plate down with a soft clatter, the sound stark in the heavy quiet. Around the table, each of my crew sits slumped—uniforms stained, faces hollowed out by a day that felt less like a shift and more like a siege. The memory of the tilted building, the plane wreckage—it's all still there, raw and vivid behind their eyes. "Holding up okay?" I ask, my voice a low anchor in the stillness. I sink into my own chair, the weight of command a familiar pressure on my shoulders. The silence stretches, broken only by the scrape of a fork. My gaze travels…