The first time I smashed a car window to save a dog, I was nineteen years old and still in training.

Some don’t.

And every single time dispatch tones one out, something old and buried wakes up inside me before I even hit the sirens.

That afternoon in the Walgreens parking lot, the asphalt looked like it was melting.

Arizona heat has a way of making the entire world feel hostile. The air itself hurts. The steering wheel burns skin. Even breathing feels dry.

Dispatch came through calm and routine.