The small LCD display on the handheld radio sitting on my nightstand turns blue; it grabs my attention out of the corner of my eye. The radio crackles to life, breaking the night's silence. The tone drops. “Durham fire, standby for activation” My favorite, and least favorite words I'll ever hear. Those words mean I'm about to spring to action, like a bullet from a gun. Those words mean I get to put to use the skills I've been learning for months. Those words mean there's someone who needs help. But it's a small town, so those words mean someone I know is in trouble. I grab the radio off of my nightstand and turn up the volume knob, “Durham fire please respond to a vehicle fire on swamp road” I remember for a second that I was biking on swamp road the day before. My middle school baseball coach (whom we later found out was embezzling from the school the whole time) lives on swamp road. There's a guy who runs an illegitimate auto body shop on swamp road whose daughter I went to school with. I glance at my alarm clock as I jump out of bed, 10:30. I grab a t-shirt hanging off of the chair at my desk where I sometimes do homework. I'm still wearing socks for this exact reason; I've learned how long it takes to put on socks after the tone drops. I put the radio down on my windowsill and step out of my room onto the hardwood stair landing. “I've got a fire call”, I yell, shattering the peace and quiet of my sleeping house. It's late, I know, but I'm sure my parents would like to know where I'm going. I hear some kind of muffled reply from up the stairs, that's good enough acknowledgement for me. I hurdle my way through the house without bothering to turn on any lights, rounding the corner into the kitchen and dive for a pair of sneakers. I turn and snatch my keys, hanging by a lanyard from a hook in the wall, and rip open the door. Even this late, the July nights are still warm and humid. Durham is always humid. It could be worse though, I thought, remembering another call when I had to drive through the worst torrential rain I had ever experienced. Rain that came down so hard and so fast I couldn't see a thing 15 feet ahead of my car. I bound down the rock steps to my driveway choosing to not remember the snakes that live under these rocks. My car is already unlocked (no one locks their car around here) I jump in and If I were at all religious I would say a little prayer as I turn the key. Hesitantly, the engine cranks to life with its usual odd smell (I sort of need a new catalytic converter but it can wait). This is one of my favorite parts of every call. I could say I know the route to the fire station like the back of my hand but that would be too cliché. I put on my seatbelt as I'm getting out of my driveway and start to pull away from my house. I'm driving my slow little car on its limits, slamming through second and third up to fourth gear grabbing fifth at 80 miles an hour. I approach a right hand corner, brake, double clutch while tapping the gas, drop to third and accelerate out of it. For a second I remember one of the first times I was driving my car: going to the fire station for a training night. I had to take this corner with my interior light on so I could see and make sure I was shifting into third rather than first or fifth. I had bought my car before learning how to drive standard because for 700 dollars I figured it was a bargain no matter what I had to learn. It feels a little odd, being out here by myself with darkness pressing in from both sides of the road. Every house I pass is dark; everyone is asleep except for me. I slow down to make the final turn into the fire station parking lot. One of our engineers already has Engine 21 pulled out and running, waiting for firefighters. I swerve into a parking space, shut off the ignition, rip out my keys and throw them on the passenger seat. I run from my car into the fire station. I walk over to my locker and pull out my gear. I've practiced this maneuver a thousand times. In one smooth motion I step into my boots while jumping into the pants, then drop to my knees as I throw the jacket over my shoulders. I carry my helmet and gloves as I walk over to Engine 21. I see the driver is Kenny; he's got to be about 70 years old but you bet he can still drive like hell. The door is already open, I reach above my head, grab a handrail and hoist myself up into the truck. I see a few figures in the dark already seated in the back. I get into a rear facing seat next to the door. We've already got an officer in the passenger's seat so we're ready to go. Kenny yells to us, “Everyone ready?” “All good back here” I slam my door and fumble in the dark for my seatbelt while the truck pulls out of the station; the lights illuminate trees on either side of the road with red flashes. I sit with my helmet and gloves in my lap. I look out the window and I think to myself: there's no place I'd rather be right now.