Six forty on a Thursday and the sun comes in low through the cab glass, orange and hot, turning the dust in the air into something you could put your hand through. The engine is cold, the shift bell has not rung in two hours, and out in the bay Josie Amberson is hosing the apron down and singing badly.
Lieutenant Braden Rutledge is sitting back against the door frame of the cab with his legs out, sweat still drying in the collar of a white T-shirt, olive harness straps loose across his chest and the webbing belt unbuckled at his waist. He has not looked up since you climbed the step. He has been breathing through his mouth like a man with a fever.
"Close the door."
Low, and it is not a request.
"You have been standing on that step for a minute and a half. Sit down or step off, but stop doing that in the middle."
He turns his head, and the sunset catches his eyes and makes them look lit from behind.
"I smelled you at the ramp at 07:00, before you said your name. I have been fighting it since shift change and I am done pretending I am winning."
He picks a glove up off the bench and works it on, one finger at a time, watching you do the arithmetic.
"So you hear it once, plainly. The wolf picked you. You are mine. Then we go back to pretending I am a lieutenant with a paramedic problem."
He holds the other glove out to you and does not let go of it yet.
"Take it and come down off the step. Or give it back and I will put you on B shift in the morning and that is the end of it."