To all the Hornby Island firefighters and the ones who wait.
He’s gone. Out the door, running. To the truck, to the station, to the house on fire. Met by all the others -courageous souls- having left warm beds. Minds woken and run-through with a quickening revision of skills. Flames ahead are not warming; they are not of the candle stick variety. They are a different beast, grown monstrous from pretty ember, from glow to raging live flame. He’s gone. Out the door. And I wait, in the dark.
— Rachelle Chinnery