“Comfort,” Stoner thought as he stared at the door of the recruiting office. Now there was a word he hadn’t been able to use in years. The skin irritations, the achy joints, the late night sweats, and the nightmares all conspired to rob him of a physical comfort that was now as alien to him as were the men and women who hurried on past him. The loss of his wife, in part due to his declining health, but mostly as a result of the building rage he found he was no longer able to control, denied him the emotional comfort that could have seen him through all the physical aliments that had become the norm for him. But above all else, it was his inability to find the comfort that comes with knowing that someone cared, that someone was doing something to help him. Denial, procrastination, and a steady outpouring of lies and half-truths concerning the illness that had ruined his life was simply too much to handle. It was this reneging on the promise that “we look after our own,” that pushed Stoner over the edge. If this building had been the beginning of his long, cruel journey, it was fitting that it also be the end.

Frank Bowman and the rest of the new shift of Engine Company 3 didn’t need to be told by anyone that something terrible had just happened. Even five blocks away, the force of the explosion shook the very foundation of their midtown fire station, knocking pictures off the wall and rattling every window in the place. Without comment or hesitation, the men and women of Engine Company 3 and the ladder truck that shared the building slammed their half filled cups of coffee down on the nearest flat surface and made their way purposely to their trucks before the first alarm came in. Above the tramping of sock clad feet across the concrete floors of the bay where the pumper stood, the voice of the central dispatcher rattled off the names and numbers of fire and emergency units that were being dispatched as well as the location of the emergency. Few of the members of Engine Company 3 paused to look at each other when the words “explosion at the Federal building, 122 East Main” blared from the speakers. Yet each and every man and woman, struggling as they pulled on heavy, oversized boots, yellow jackets with broad silver strips, and visored helmets, saw the same image in their minds. The scenes of Oklahoma City were too well etched in their collective memories for any of them to discount that possibility.

With an ease that belied the difficulty of the task, Bowman maneuvered the pumper truck of Engine Company 3 down the last few chaotic blocks leading to the front of the Federal building. Having been totally absorbed by the task of driving the mammoth vehicle, Bowman was unprepared for what he saw when he finally had a chance to glance up at the massive Federal building. To be trained to deal with something did not mean that you were truly ready to come face to face with the harsh reality of such an event. Awed by the smoke and flame that bellowed from shattered windows and gaping holes where a solid marble facade had been, Bowman didn’t realize that he had run up onto the curb until the huge front bumper of his truck began to bowl over and crumple the row of postal boxes that stood before the building. Slamming on his brakes Bowman brought his pumper to a halt, throwing his fellow firefighters forward. Even after regaining their balance, it took them all a moment to absorb the shock of what they were seeing before springing from the cab of the truck to begin the task of laying hose.