Blazing Bright.

The burning embers of Granda Jack’s hickory pipe glowed inside the chamber in his fingers, hanging low over the fireplace. As he slept in his armchair, I gently placed a sheet of newspaper on top. The flame entranced me, blazing bright orange. I was six years of age.

Watching it curl at the edges, bubble and ignite made my nostrils flare, my eyes widen. I picked up the edge and threw it in the fire, smudging my fingers. I inhaled deeply, my heart racing. The smell swallowed me, catching my breath.

My parents worked hard in the financial world in New York, devoid of sentiment and lush in cash. I never really knew them as they died when I was young.

My grandparents became my de facto parents after planes crashed into buildings and caused big fires. I remember lots of drawn, sad faces for a long time.

I arrived late in my parents' lives when they thought children in their forties wasn't possible. When they died on the 89th floor of the tower, returning to our Chelsea home in the city wasn’t practical. My only living relatives were Granda Jack and Nana Joyce. They lived in the country and thought that the quiet of the country might improve my day-to-day life. I felt safe there – towering buildings took the shape of tall trees.

Our nearest neighbour lived a mile away and we had the comfort of a mirrored lake, mere metres from the back door. Trees surrounded us, mainly of ash and beech, thick with plumage in summer and shelter from the cold elements in winter. Evergreen firs scented down from the hillsides, blowing wafts of sweet and subtle pine toward us at waterside.

At nine, Granda Jack started becoming suspicious of my fascination. The eternal lack of vinegar in the cupboard and baking soda underneath the kitchen sink that I was making homemade fire extinguishers out of, finally confirmed his gut feeling.

He was so angry at first. Then he explained how disappointed he was but understood why I was drawn to fire. Explaining that I loved the warmth and knew how everything worked dissipated his initial wrath. We didn't tell my Nana Joyce. He asked if I knew how my parents died and how important fire was in our family. I replied no to both, not fully understanding his questions. His quiet temperance and stare will forever stain my brain.

"How about, we take this one step at a time?" he asked.

Granda thought that I should learn his skills, alongside my own. He knew tricks to combat the fire, using the tools and terrain at your disposal. The house had been lucky enough since it was built in the 1970's, escaping brush and rampaging woodland fire. The soft vegetation underfoot on the hills made for perfect tinder, but we were in the valley, astride the cooling lake.

It was about this time that Granda brought me camping for the first time. Twinkling stars were my nightlights; him humming my sleeping soundtrack. We lit a fire the following morning and fought it ourselves. We used sand, red dye fire retardant, and my homemade fire extinguishers to repel the flames. We arrived home, sooty and stinking. We then told Nana Joyce what we’d done.

She looked upon Granda with accusing eyes. I could see from her hesitation and his bowed head that this was not unfamiliar territory. Of course, now that I reminisce, it makes sense. I have Granda to thank for so much. He's the reason I became a junior firefighter aged twelve.

I am now aged twenty-three. I have been a firefighter for the FDNY for five years. I am the father of one rampaging rascal, named Timothy.

Two nights ago, my life changed.

A burning beam collapsed and fell forty feet through two ceilings above me, bounced and caught me underneath. I now lay in a hospital with a heavily pierced torso, no eyebrows or scalp hair, and shards of wood being removed every few hours.

The pain is dulled by morphine, which I click a drip to activate. It's euphonious but then I lull back to reality, realizing that I need a new kidney. One of the shards, four inches long, perforated both of mine in one motion. Suppression of escaping blood and fluids by my fellow house brothers and sisters saved my life.

A throwaway comment by a doctor, who assumed I knew the contents of his remark, near pushed me into cardiac arrest. A good place to have heart issues I know, but one that lifted me off the supporting pillows. Granda was downstairs getting something to eat.

I apparently had a brother called Thomas, eight years older. Who tried to kill my parents and me in a house fire, when I was an infant. He failed and was incarcerated upstate in an institution for young men.

He would be a perfect match according to the blood-work on file.

I am shown a photograph of Thomas Fennell.

From what I remember of Father, Thomas could be mistaken for him. Except Thomas looks sad and lost. I lie alone with anger my companion, for an hour.

Granda reenters the room.

"Why did you never tell me about my brother Thomas, Granda?"

"There's a myriad of reasons we never told you, Frankie. Firstly, you don't have a brother anymore. He died in an electrical fire in the institution he resided in, four years ago. He was bad news."

"So he's dead? So no kidney there then either?"

"Unfortunately not. In the past hour though, the doctor told me that they have a match. From your own house."

"You?"

"No. Your own firehouse. Gretchen Adams."

"I couldn't ask her."


"You can and you will. Firefighters have lined up around the block wanting to donate for hours. They all want to help someone who was born to fight a fire. Sure aren't your initials FF? As in Firefighter?"