by Sima Matthes (New York City)
I am crouched down, my face pressed against the back of my partner. It’s dark, and hot, and I am unable to see past my protective mask. It’s noisy—crackling and creaking all around, the sound of dripping water overhead—and yet strangely quiet. We advance, holding onto the hose, and hoping that we’re going to get to the fire before it gets any larger. I’m terrified and exhilarated. I can’t clear my head, so I scream—a deep, primal scream—and then, suddenly, I know what I’m supposed to be doing again.
We find our way toward the source of the heat, click the switch, and exit the exercise. Outside, I join my class of fellow firefighters, dirty, stinky and dripping with perspiration and condensation from the inside of our masks. We wait to be debriefed, then gear up for the next “evolution.”
This is not for the faint of heart, and I wonder how I got here.