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Ryder to see his bulging face in every spot. Men in dark blue pants and light blue shirts worked at various duties around the garage. They all cast wary looks at Doyle, as if they knew what had happened. There really was a shiny brass pole that disappeared through a hole in the ceiling.
    â€œC’mon, kid. You can do that later. First, the chief.” Doyle nudged his shoulder and Ryder followed the fireman into the station, where he got a whiff of chili before they climbed up two flights of stairs.
    The office looked like any office Ryder had ever seen, crowded with papers and desks. Since it was Sunday, the desks in the gloomy space were empty, but in the far corner, light spilled from a single office.
    â€œThis is Battalion,” Doyle explained. “Not every station is this big. We got lucky. We get to have the bosses right over our heads breathing down our necks every doggone minute.”
    They wound their way through the desks and walked right into the office with the lights.
    â€œHey, Chief.” Doyle sat right down and crossed his legs, directing Ryder to the chair beside him with a nod of his head.
    The chief looked up from some papers and glared at Doyle. “What are you doing? On a Sunday, no less.”
    â€œMe? Helping out this kid, Chief.”
    â€œThis kid?” The chief was a tall, wiry man with a big head of gray hair that appeared to have been blown back by a storm. His skin was pale and spotted with big freckles and the whites of his tired eyes looked smoke stained. “The kid who’s a witnessto an FDNY truck accident that’s going to undergo a full investigation? Where’s your head, Doyle?”
    â€œChief, everyone saw it wasn’t us. It was some crazy delivery truck trying to beat the light.” Doyle sat up straighter. “Plus, he’s got no one else to turn to.”
    â€œAnd this Twitter thing? Using FDNY to raise money? Where’s your head? You can’t just announce you’re raising money for someone.”
    Ryder’s stomach sank.
    Doyle looked like he’d been hit with a board. “I can’t?”

“There are channels, Doyle. Protocols.” The chief narrowed his eyes. “You need a 501(c)(3) and you need approval .”
    â€œYeah, but hey, what about our motto? ‘Do the right thing’?” Doyle’s fingers began to fidget and he lowered his voice, leaning toward the chief. “This kid’s mom needs a heart valve replacement, maybe two, Chief.”
    The chief grabbed a bulging file from the mess on his desk, opened it, and began yanking out papers stapled together in small stacks. “And we got a captain from Rescue 1 whose daughter needs a kidney, a probie from Engine 18 who needs a bone marrow transplant, and a retired chief with pancreatic cancer they want to send to Sweden for experimental treatment. And the list goes on and on, Doyle. FDNY is like the Nike swoosh, for God’s sake. It’s a brand. Everyone recognizes it. It’s famous and it’s valuable. And it doesn’t belong to you. ”
    Doyle winced and winked and motioned his head toward Ryder.
    â€œI know the kid is sitting right here, Doyle.” The chief scowled at the fireman as if Ryder didn’t exist. “You brought him here. And is this really where he should be? No. He should be with his family .”
    â€œThat’s what this is all about, Chief.” Doyle rubbed his mustache, talking faster by the second. “We’re working on that. He’s got a dad, but they never met. We may know his name. We’re gonna look, but that’s really it. Well, we got this crotchety neighbor who’ll do for a day or so—but otherwise, they’re gonna feed him to those ogres at social services.”
    The chief pressed his lips tight and his face started to color. Each word escaped his mouth like a convict. “My wife works at social services, Doyle.”
    Ryder could hear the