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the people they’d eventually work with—and these were the people that Bob would eventually recommend for instructor training. Also, Bob himself, the former Navy Seal who had returned from Vietnam to be one of the first to form this tribe I was trying to join, had taken me to the side.
    When he’d caught up with me in the quad during a break, he’d asked in his warm, yet brusque manner, “Tori, what gives?”
    “What do you mean—did I fail my last practical?” I asked, alarmed. I mean, I knew I’d skipped classes, but I really was on top of my stuff—at least I thought I was.
    “Nah, your grades are fine, but where you been, kid? Problem at home or something?”
    His voice held a hard sympathy I respected.
    “It’s under control.” I nodded shortly in reply, relieved my grades were fine.
    “Okay, kid,” he patted my shoulder and stared out across the quad for a few seconds, “because I want you here.” He caught my eyes. “If you’ve got a, a situation, tell me about it, okay?” He gave me a quick smile that for whatever reason made me feel good, like he was a friend.
    “I’ll be here,” I smiled back, “and I’ll be at the drill site on Saturday.”
    “Good,” he said, “now throw an old firefighter a smoke.”
    We lit up and chatted about different medical and trauma scenarios, some technical details of rope rescue, and interesting calls he’d had until it was time for the second half of the lecture. With a pat on the shoulder as we walked in, he advised, “Just remember: Improvise. Adapt. Overcome. No matter what, you’ll get through every situation.”
    After two hours learning to do exactly that—makeshift splints, creative adaptations of found materials for litters, immobilization, and recovery-rescue—came the announcement.
    “I want you to bring a windshield punch and a utility knife,” Bob said to our small group after class as he handed us a paper with the address of the supply store. “Pick them up before the exercise on Saturday.”
    I looked forward to it, was even happy about it until I pulled into my parking spot. Kerry. Dammit. I was relatively certain Kerry wasn’t going to be thrilled, but she surprised me when I told her.
    “I completely understand,” she said.
    “Really? I mean, as soon as I get back, we can go do something, you know? It’s just that Bob said—”
    Kerry shushed me with a kiss. “Don’t worry. When is it and when will you be home?”
    I kissed her, then told her all the details, and while I thought that smile might have been just the slightest bit forced, I was glad she wasn’t angry.

    *

    The morning dawned sunny and bright, a perfect Indian summer day, ideal for being outside and working up a sweat, and I was careful not to wake Kerry as I grabbed my belt and equipment. Bob had said we might get a chance to play rescuer too, and I didn’t want to be unprepared.
    The mock disaster site was in the middle of a field located behind South Beach Psych, the local mental hospital, which was itself right behind University Hospital-North, one of the largest hospitals on Staten Island. I found a parking space and tramped down the dirt track in the field. As I got closer, I saw Bob, who waved me over.
    “Yo, Scotty!” he called. “Come on and get moulage!”
    I waved back and hustled, wondering what in the world “moulage” was. I soon found out. Two long tables held an assortment of bandages and rubbery plastic things that on closer inspection turned out to be burns, wounds, and protruding body parts like bowels and eyeballs. Lisa, Bob’s wife, sat in a chair with a paintbrush and a cup of red liquid. My classmate Bennie sat in front of her, getting made up as an accident victim.
    “Oh, hey!” She smiled up at me from her chair as Lisa painted carefully along her forearm.
    I closely examined the plastic parts that were glued to her skin and guessed, “Radius-ulna fracture?” judging from the two sharp sticks that jutted out at odd