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Dr. Swenson had a kind of shorthand together. He quickly communicated the fact that his mother seemed rattled but not disoriented, her pupils were not dilated, and the only apparent damage was the bruise on her cheek. He listened to what the man had to say, thanked him, then clicked off the phone.
    â€œHe wants you to come in for an MRI sometime in the next ­couple of days.”
    She made a face. “Him and his tests. They never actually tell you anything.”
    He couldn’t disagree. And the tests cost a fortune. “Still, we should do what he says. He’s kept you alive so far.”
    â€œNo.” A sheen of moisture glimmered in her eyes. “ You’ve kept me alive.”
    His mother rarely got weepy. She must be really shaken up. He shifted into “Vader” mode. “Aw Mom! Don’t start with the tears. Are you forgetting I’m a guy? You’re trying to kill me, right? Just cut to the chase and drop me into a vat of battery acid. Or throw me in a . . . a bouncy castle with a . . . man-­eating lion. Lash me to a TV playing nonstop shopping channel.”
    Finally she laughed. Reassured, he straightened up and put his hands on the handles of the wheelchair. “Now do you want to see the video I shot at the fair or what? You can check it out while I get you some ice for that bruise.”
    For the past ­couple of years, he’d been taking his video camera to work and documenting the crazy antics that went on at Station 1. He never managed to shoot any actual fire footage, since he was always in the thick of that. But practical jokes, goofing around, handball games, firehouse dinners were all fair game. To his mother, those videos were better than a million soap operas or episodes of Bones , her second favorite form of entertainment.
    The guys at the station had no idea they’d become a sort of long-­running TV show in the Brown household. They didn’t even know about his mother. As far as he was concerned, she was his responsibility, and he didn’t want anyone feeling sorry either for him or for her.
    â€œFred said something funny today,” he said as he wheeled her into the living room, which was dominated by a large flat-­screen TV. Ginny spent a lot of time in this room, either watching TV or working out with her Wii. A desk in the corner of the room held a computer at just the right height for her. That was where she wrote her daily blog, “Cripple Creek,” in which she offered advice to other wheelchair-­bound ­people, and surfed the Internet for everything that caught her attention. Since the accident and his father’s departure, she’d preferred to stay at home unless he dragged her out for a walk or a spin in the Suburban. These days, her friends were online instead of down the street. Vader shuddered to think what her life would be like without the Internet.
    â€œIsn’t Fred always saying something funny? He’s such a cutie-­patootie.”
    Vader gleefully pictured Fred’s face if he heard that one. “Not that kind of funny. He actually said I should take the promotional exam.” He crossed to the TV to hook up the cable of his video camera. “It’s the exam you take when you want to be promoted to the next level. Captain I, in my case.”
    She gripped the arms of her wheelchair, nearly lifting herself off in her excitement. “You’d be the captain of Station 1, like Captain Brody?”
    â€œSteady now. No more accidents. If I passed, and they gave me the job, I’d be captain of the engine company. On the A shift. But I’d have to be a Captain I for two years until I could be Captain II, like Brody is.” Even saying the words made him uncomfortable. Captain Brody was a legend in San Gabriel. How could a goofball like Vader Brown ever take his place? “Ah, forget it. I thought it was funny, that’s all.” He cued up the clip from the