After the fire I'm standing in the ruin of someone's bedroom, with mattresses and a dresser still smoldering faintly and the walls scorched to absolute darkness. The carpet, soaked by the hoses, squelches under my boots. There is debris everywhere, both from the fire and our efforts to search the apartment for occupants and extinguish the fire in the utter blackout of oily smoke. Every surface is coated in wet cinders.

I see what looks like a wallet on top of the dresser, and for a moment I have the urge to pick it up and look for an ID inside. I want to know whose apartment this was, because I know there will be a terrible moment here sometime soon when they enter their home and see the extent of the destruction. I feel sorry for them, but I have no face to associate with my sympathy and it is extremely unlikely I will ever be here again.

Before I enter the fire, we've responded to the box alarm we're gearing up in the back of the squad on the way to this call. The last high rise box was nothing too significant, maybe food burning on a stove, and I didn't even make it to the "fire" before it was put out. Still, my stomach is a little tight and I'm making sure my gear is on perfectly.

In the back of the rescue squad we use headphones with attached microphones to communicate; it's the only way to talk to each other over the noise of the siren. I tear my headset off for a moment to pull on my fire-resistant hood. It always seems like someone tries to say something to me on the intercom while I'm putting on my hood, and when I don't answer they think I'm goofing off in the back. I'm so paranoid about this that I can probably get my hood on as fast as any firefighter in the county.

"What're you taking?" the officer asks me a moment after I have the headphones back on.

"Um, the can and the irons," I say without thinking. I have just volunteered to carry the two heaviest tools. The can is a large fire extinguisher that must weigh 30-40 pounds. The irons are a set comprised of an ax, Halligan bar, and a small metal tool that can be used to pull off a lock. They're used mostly in forcible entry. Both are essential tools for a high rise fire, but it's going to be a long slog up carrying both.

The squad pulls up near the first due engine and truck, and we all pile out and start grabbing equipment. I also take a large flashlight on a loop over my shoulder. A few residents are milling around in the parking lot, and from fifty feet outside the building I can already hear the fire alarm going off. The three of us head into the building. The alarm is deafening as we pass through the lobby.

We're boarding the elevator when a radio report comes from the first team in: heavy smoke on the eighth floor. There is a sudden shimmer, a tightening of the space in the elevator, as if our gear suddenly made us too large for this confinement. "All right," says one of the lieutenants, "this is the real deal." We get off two floors below the fire floor and head up the stairs. Some of the building's residents are still evacuating, anxiously flowing down the staircase, and we squeeze past them on our way up (I know, it's a widely circulated image of disaster, but I can't do anything about that).

On the fire floor there's a thick, pungent haze. We run down the hall to find the engine company crouched at the door to the apartment where the fire is burning. I am already gasping as if I'd sprinted up the steps. We pause for a feverish moment at the door to pull on masks and switch to SCBA. The engine company has the standpipe pack set up and charges the line; there is a whoosh as the water fills the hose running through the hallway. We're on our hands and knees. I have the ax in one hand. I turn on my flashlight. There could be someone in there. I can't even begin to classify the many emotions I'm experiencing right now but it doesn't really matter. The door opens and it is nothing but wall of impenetrable black smoke. And we crawl in.