The Tiny Ticket Puncher

First Hector tried sweeping away the snow with a whisk broom, but it was laying too fast and heavy. Nearly two inches already covered the sidewalk. The weathercaster had called the system a “Canadian Clipper.” He needed his sidewalk clear and salted. The school bus would be pulling up any minute.

Typically, once the driver cranked open the door, the kids poured out, liberated at last from the Sisters of Mercy. Whooping it up, they tore down the sidewalk, laser-focused on their new mission: snacks, Sega Genesis, and street hockey, never watching where they were going.

He was shuffling toward his garage for a shovel when his pager sounded. He flinched, still surprised by the black device strapped to his belt and its tinny, two-tone beeps. He dug into his hoodie for his cell and pulled up the message:

STRUCTURE FIRE. BRIDGE AND MAIN STS.

He yanked his keys out of his pocket, scrambled into the cab of his Silverado, and slid the key into the ignition. His heart pounded. Sweat beaded around his chin. He forced himself to breathe in and out, slowly, to center himself.

A few months ago, when he got his very first page as a volunteer firefighter, he felt that mighty adrenaline rush other volunteers had raved about. While backing up his truck, he didn’t see the neighbor’s cat, which had scampered under his rear wheels, accidentally crushing it. Mrs. Murphy said it wasn’t Hector’s fault, that the cat had come out of nowhere. But Emmy Murphy cried and cried, having witnessed the cruel demise of her beloved kitty. He had wanted to make it up to Emmy. He would find a way.

He’d better hop out and survey his back wheels. No critters hiding there. So, he climbed back in the cab and eased down the driveway while buckling his seat belt, checking his mirrors.

He was forgetting something. His gear. He scanned the passenger side floor. Must have left it at the station after Saturday’s training. He could swing by the firehouse and grab it on the way to Bridge and Main.

When he reached Rothsville Station Road, traffic eastbound was at a dead stop. It was a UPS truck, double-parked. Twelve seconds. Thirteen seconds. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Delivering what? ¿Un elefante?

He only had two blocks to go, but because school had just let out, traffic was too heavy to even think about gunning it into the oncoming lane.

Finally, he was moving again. When he reached the station, he parked askew in an empty bay. He cut the engine and sprinted inside, bumping into Ashley, one of the station’s paramedics.

“Whoa, Hector!” Ashley stumbled back, losing her footing. “Watch—”

He helped her to her feet. “So sorry. Need my gear.”

“No, you don’t. False alarm.” Ashley dusted off her pants. “They’re coming back.”

He groaned, kicking the snow off his sneakers. “I didn’t make the truck again.”

“Next time. Want to finish a pot of coffee?”

“One cup. Then I have to finish shoveling my sidewalk. The snow is coming down like a mother.”

“These clippers make the roads awfully slick,” Ashley said.

Hector sipped his coffee. “Not as bad as huracanes en Puerto Rico.”

Ashley shrugged. “I’ll take your word for it.”

He slugged the what was left in the cup, and decided to retrieve his helmet, pants, and boots from the locker room anyway. Who knows? He might get another call today with all this snow on the roads. Now that the adrenaline had subsided, he felt chilled in his soggy hoodie. He threw on his fluorescent-striped fire jacket.

He trudged back to the truck, tossing in his gear, and ground the ignition. Click, click, click. He cranked it again.

“Yeeeowwwl!” A blood-curdling howl pierced the rattle of the engine sputtering to life.

He cut the ignition and popped the hood. A gray-striped kitten had crawled into his motor to warm up, he supposed. A red stream trickled from its head. The fan must’ve sliced off an ear. What was it with him and cats this year? Hector Estevez, el gato killer of Rothsville.

“Lo siento, gatito. Lo siento.”

He reached for the terrified animal and pressed it to his chest, scanning the engine for the rest of the ear. Could Ashley stitch it back on? No ear parts in sight. She could at least stanch the bleeding, disinfect it, bandage it.

As he ran toward the station house, his feet flew out from under him. His upper back and shoulder slammed the freezing asphalt. He … couldn’t … breathe.

The kitten bolted, scampering into the snow-covered street.

He inhaled through his mouth while pushing out his stomach. Then he sucked in his abdomen, exhaling deeply until his breath returned. As he clutched his shoulder and struggled to his feet, the injured kitten decided to plop down in the middle of the two-lane, its gray fur barely visible. Staggering onto the roadway, bracing his shoulder with one hand, he waved traffic to a halt with the other, his bright coat a beacon in the squall.

Hector stooped to grab the cat, but it bolted into the park across the street, scampering up a tree.

The kitten had clawed itself onto a sturdy-looking branch extending over Picnic Woods Lake, which had frozen over during the polar vortex last week.

His calling today was to save that cat. Then he could offer it to Emmy and maybe, just maybe, make amends.

This was not the first cat his station had rescued this year. Cats famously climbed trees but couldn’t climb back down because their claws curved forward. That kitten would freeze to death up there if it wasn’t rescued. Or starve. It had nowhere else to go. It wasn’t going to take a flying leap onto a frozen pond anytime soon.

He’d have to scale the trunk and ease himself along the limb until he could grab it. What then? He’d tuck it inside his coat until he was back on the ground.

His muscular legs straddled the trunk. He shimmied himself higher and higher using his good shoulder and arm to secure a thick branch. He gritted his teeth and pulled himself up, easing his beefy frame onto it.

“Meow, meow,” the kitten yelped mournfully.

“Yo voy a ti,” he said.

He heard the firetruck rumbling into the station, but at that moment, the wind-whipped snow mostly obscured it from view. No matter. He could rescue that kitten by himself.

“Here, kitty, kitty.” As he slid further down the branch, he noticed one side of its face had turned rusty brown, its gray stripes coated in drying blood. Two feet to go. Still hugging the tree limb with his legs, he inched closer and closer as the branch thinned out to about four inches around.

If he didn’t make any sudden moves, he could secure that cat. Gently, he reached forward with his good arm, cradled the feline in his hands, and nestled it inside his jacket, refastening the top button. The scared little thing promptly sank its claws right through his t-shirt into Hector’s chest. He recoiled from the pain, and both of them fell backward, hurtling toward the pond.

He landed on his bad shoulder again as the kitten dug in, still buttoned into his coat.

“Gahhh!” he wailed, the skin on his chest clawed raw by the frightened cat.

A hollow shudder ripped through the ice.

Now what? Standing up would put too much weight on the pond. Could he drag himself across it, cat in tow, somehow keeping his weight distributed? He should just let the darn thing go. It was just a cat. And cats were intuitive. It would probably head in the right direction. Or freeze to death. Or drown when the ice turned to water near the stream.

He gasped, realizing it was more than cat claws causing him intense pain. He couldn’t move. His shoulder felt like a boulder had crushed it. He held his breath. As he was formulating his plan, the ice cracked violently underneath. It would give way any second, and they’d be plunged into the frigid water. He wouldn’t be able to lift himself out. Hypothermia would set in. He’d be gone in 15 minutes while the cat drowned clinging to his chest.

Good old, Hector. He became a firefighter because he wanted to help people. Wanted to make a difference. Now, he was getting his ticket punched trying to save a kitten, of all things. The ice shuddered again. His legs slid in the water. Then his hips. His coat grew heavier and heavier. His body, colder and colder.

“Help,” he called. “Help.”

“We got you, man,” someone yelled from the lake’s edge. “Don’t move.”

* * *

Hector coughed and opened his eyes. He was lying on a stretcher. Ashley and Ken were loading him into the ambulance, blankets piled on top of him.

“Ahh, ¡puñeta!” he winced, reaching for his shoulder. “Man, that hurts.” He took a few shallow breaths. “The kitten?”

“They’re helping it,” Ken said. “It’ll be okay.”

“I’ll ride with Hector,” Ashley said, then turned to her patient. “Let’s worry about you, Estevez. I saw you follow that darn cat into the middle of the road. Chased it up a tree. Nearly killed yourself.”

“I’m an idiot—” Hector started.

“None of that,” she scoffed. “You earned your stripes today, saving that little kitty.”

He grimaced. “I want to give it to my little neighbor. She…lost her cat. C-can you give me something? The pain—”

“One step ahead of you,” she said, easing a needle into his shoulder joint. “You’ll be good as new in a bit.”

The ambulance lights strafed Ashley’s face as he closed his eyes, letting the painkiller do its thing.