"Son," the captain said. "Where's the other half."
"At my house," I said. "Next to my grandpa. He's asleep. My mom's at work. I'm supposed to, I'm supposed to be with him. I'm supposed to be with him and I come over here. I listen. I listen on this. Every day. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." I was crying now. "But that's not him. That's not my house. That's not him, Captain. I don't know who that is."
The captain looked at me for maybe two seconds. I've thought about those two seconds for most of my life. I've been on the other side of them since, more times than I can count, and I know now what he was doing in them. He was setting me down. He was taking everything I'd just told him, my grandfather alone in the recliner and my mother at the hospital and the month of lies, and he was putting it on a shelf where he could get back to it later, because there wasn't room for it right then. There was only room for the voice.
"Bert," he said, standing up. "Boots. Go across the alley to the Archuleta house, the brick one with the green gate, back door. There's an old man in the front room asleep in a recliner. You sit with him. You don't leave him until I come get you. If he wakes up, his name is Cruz, he can't talk too well, you tell him Salvador sent you."
"Back door's open," I said. "It's open."
Bert was already moving, stepping into his boots without lacing them, grabbing his coat off the hook. He went out the side door at a run and I heard his boots hit the ice in the parking lot.
"Hank, get on the radio, tell dispatch Engine 4 is investigating a possible medical, unknown location, our first-due. Tell them we may need an ambulance and we'll advise. Chuy, get the jump kit and the oxygen." He held out his hand to me. "Give me that."