Jarvis woke to the shriek of the smoke alarm and the acrid bite of burning oil in her throat. The kitchen was already hazy—grease fire from the pan she’d left on too long while scrolling her phone. Nothing apocalyptic, just enough black smoke curling toward the ceiling to set off every detector in the small house. She grabbed a towel, tried to smother it, coughed hard, then gave up and called 911 with shaking fingers. Thirty-nine years old, living alone on the quiet edge of town, she’d never needed help before. Tonight she did.
The fire truck arrived in under five minutes—sirens cutting through the winter dark, red lights painting the snow blue and crimson. Four men burst through her front door without knocking, gear clanking, voices sharp and professional.
“Ma’am, step back,” the captai
