“Becca!”
God, they were like children, Becca thought.
She pointed to a man wearing a dark-blue blazer with khakis. She was trying to be fair in how she chose people to ask questions, and she didn’t think she had given this guy a chance yet.
“Becca,” the guy began, “how did you know the roof was going to drop away from Peggy Ross?”
Peggy? Was that her name?
This was the first time Becca had learned that.
“It’s hard to explain,” Becca answered. “After the explosion, I noticed cracks developing in the roof’s structure and they seemed to be coming from the portion of the roof Firefighter Ross was on.” She shrugged. “I just knew the roof was going to collapse and so I lunged for her.”
Other journalists tried to get her attention but the same guy just talked over them.
“Are you saying you sensed it was going to happen?”
Becca sighed quietly.
“There wasn’t anything mystical about it,” she said. “I’ve been a firefighter for a long time, and before that I was an Army Ranger, which means I’ve been in dangerous situations for most of my adult life. I really believe any firefighter in my position on the roof would have known that something bad was about to happen.”
She pointed to a thirty-something woman with curly blonde hair.
“Becca, were you not concerned about your own safety?”
Typical.
Becca was amazed at how people assumed that in a crisis situation, first responders have the luxury of evaluating all possible outcomes before acting. What’s worse, they also seemed to assume that if a first responder recognized the threat to his or her own safety, that they might very well choose not to act.
Becca met the woman’s gaze, her eyes flashing.
“Firefighters are in the business of saving lives,” she said. “It’s what we are trained to do and it is what we want to do. We know that there is always a threat to our personal safety every time we put on our gear and respond to a fire, yet we still rush into those burning buildings every single time. If I had hesitated for even a second, thinking about my own personal safety, Firefighter Ross would now be dead. Next.”
Another man stood.
“How do you respond to people who think firefighting should only be a man’s job?”
“That they’re idiots,” Becca said. “Next.”
She flicked her eyes to Krissy, who smiled and gave her a thumbs-up. Alarmingly, a couple of photographers noticed the exchanged and now took a few snaps of Krissy. But before Becca could worry much about that, a young woman who couldn’t possibly be twenty-five yet stood.
“How are you handling all of the newfound fame you’ve gotten?” she asked.
“Honestly? Not very well.” The assembled group of journalists laughed, even though Becca hadn’t meant to be funny. “I’ll leave fame to the Kardashians. I just want to fight fires.”
The young woman had a follow-up question.
“Do you think you’re an inspiration for girls who want to grow up to be firefighters?” she asked.
Becca thought about that.
“I suppose,” she began. “But what I’d rather be is an inspiration for girls and boys who want to grow up to be firefighters.”
Another man—of course—asked, “How does it feel to be a lesbian sex symbol now?”
Becca bristled, but before the press conference started, Chief Comstock had warned her that there might be stupid questio
ns like this and had asked her—as a professional courtesy to him—to try not to blow up and “rip anyone a new asshole.”