The Boy in the Doorway
The boy didn’t move. He didn’t run toward the trucks or shout “Fireman!” as most children did. He simply stood, a small island of misery in a sea of concrete. He wore a faded blue t-shirt that hung off his thin shoulders, and his knees were scraped and dusty.
Elias wiped his hands on a grease-stained rag. He saw the way the boy’s chest hitched—a rhythmic, silent sob that had been going on for a long time. The Captain dropped to one knee, his joints popping, to bridge the distance between his height and the child’s world.
“Hey there, buddy,” Elias said, his voice a gentle gravel. “Are you lost? Where’s your folks?”
The boy didn’t speak. He just stared with eyes so red and swollen they looked bruised. The other firefighters, Miller and Henderson, stopped their work and gathered behind the Captain, the atmosphere shifting from lazy to alert in a heartbeat.
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