Fireman

The air outside was thick with ash. It smelled of things that were gone. Of burnt plastic and wet soot. The street was not a street. a ruin. The houses across the way were just black frames against the sky. The roofs were gone. A car sat on its side, twisted and black. The sounds were not the sounds of a town. They were sirens. Shouts. The crack of collapsing wood. And a low, constant hissing from the wreckage. The fire had taken everything. Or it had tried.

My shop stood. The old brick had held. I was lucky. A window was broken, but that was all. The smoke came in through the hole. I did not close the door. A man needs a place to go. A place that is not ruined. I was that place. No one had come yet. Just the dust and the sirens.

Then the door opened. A young man came in. He was a fireman. His face was black with soot. Streaks of sweat had made white lines through the dirt. His helmet was in his hand. His eyes were wide. Tired. Old eyes on a young face. He looked at the shelves. Not for food. He looked for something that was not there. For a world that had not been burned. He was worn out. Used up.

He did not speak. He just pointed to a sandwich on the rack. And a bottle of water. I grabbed it for him. Put it on the counter. He did not sit. He ate it standing. His hands shook. He ate like an animal. Like a man starved for days. He tore at the bread. The meat. Almost gone in two bites. The water was gone in a single gulp. He was eating life back into his body.

He put the half-eaten sandwich down. The bottle was empty. He put his hand on the counter. It left a black print in the dust. Then sirens. A different sound. Urgent. A cry for him.

He looked at me. His eyes were sorry. For the unfinished meal. For the world that was on fire. Then he was gone. He ran. The bells on the door jingled a last sound of normal.

I stood there. I looked at the counter. The half-eaten sandwich sat there. I did not move it. The crumbs. The black handprint. It was a sign. life was still being fought for.