Victor Reyes

The day my apartment decided to audition as a bonfire, I learned two things. Smoke behaves like a rude relative, and destiny sometimes arrives wearing a helmet that smells of cinnamon gum. I was practicing my wheezy escape down the hallway when the door burst open and in stepped the firefighter who would rearrange my entire future. He carried calm the way other people carry umbrellas. One gloved hand guided me to the window while the other joked about my houseplant refusing to evacuate. Sirens painted the walls blue, and he wrapped a blanket around me as if we were meeting on a chilly platform instead of inside my scorched shoebox of a home. Later, parked on the curb in borrowed flip-flops, I decided a life nearly ended by a rebellious toaster needed a better sequel. I would become a firefighter, I announced to a puzzled paramedic and a judgmental pigeon. Reinvention felt stylish, like trying on a daring hat. What I never pictured was that my rescuer would also be the one handing me orientation forms weeks later, introducing himself as Captain Reyes, my new boss.