Unsung Hero

June 21st, 0600 Hours

Thirty something hours at work, and I'm glad to be home.  Everything hurts.  At the same time I'm not really happy to walk through that door without Dallas running around the corner to greet me.  When he was alive it was annoying.  Now I miss it.

There's still German shepherd hair on the couch, which, if you've ever had one, or even just let one come close to you, is impossible to get rid of.  Three years later and I'm still finding it on my uniforms and dress clothes.  Nobody warns you, either.  Kind of makes me wish Dallas--my buddy--had been an outside dog.  Hindsight, I guess.

It's 0600 by the time my uniform's finally off and I've brushed my teeth.  Just seeing the time makes me tired, but I can't sleep.  Maybe it's questions about Crosswind keeping me awake, or the fact that Lacey's case has been on the back burner for months.  Or maybe I've just been awake for too damn long.  Eventually I give up and turn on the TV, irritated at everyone with normal work hours.  One of the anchors on channel twelve has this squeaky voice—if you were blindfolded she might pass for a hero—and all I can do is mock her.  I'm sure she's a great person, just not when you haven't slept in thirty hours, or however long it's been.  Gotta stop taking these extra shifts. 

Sounds like Faulkner's gonna get pounded with a hurricane, so that's something we can look forward to.  I guarantee all the heroes will disappear for a week or two so they don't have to help with the cleanup.  Not sure if I should be angry or just accept it.

"The eye of Hurricane Ashley is expected to pass over eastern Florida around 2 AM on Wednesday.  Now, I know it's tempting to leave the house, but don't do it!  It's dangerous."

No shit.

I wish she'd be quiet, because even though I could change the channel, I'd have to find the energy.  It's like listening to my mother, if my mother were white-collar Nancy from the two million dollar house down the street.  It's weird; in Florida, even the ghettos have mansions, like whoever lives in 'em two days out of the year wants to remind their neighbours they're better than everyone else.  Hate to admit it, but I take my time when the snobs report robberies.  Usually they treat my guys at the P.D. like slaves. 

Soon enough, she does shut up.  Before the end of her segment, too, which is an added bonus.  For a second the TV turns to those blocks of colour and makes the...you know, the noise, but I just keep watching. I'm catatonic until my phone rings, but my hands won't move—only my head will.  If it's important they'll leave a message—or call four more times.  Finally, on the fifth call, the phone annoys me enough that I find the will to pick it up.  "Hello?"

"Fisher, I need to see you at the office.  Now."

At first, all I can do is sigh.  I squint at the screen for the time, but my vision is so blurry I can't read the numbers.  Probably somewhere around 7:00.  I don't really want to know, anyway; knowing would probably just make me feel worse.  "Chief—"

"Did you misunderstand 'now'?  I wouldn't have called if it weren't important." 

"Chief, I've been at work for thirty-six hours and awake for forty.  I'm not coming to the station right now."  It's not even open yet; if people want to get a hold of us before 8:00, they'll have to call 911. 

"Thirty-six hours?  Why?"

"Uh, because you assigned those shifts to me?"

"I don't remember that."

"Well, check the time cards."  The line goes quiet for a few seconds, and I hear keystrokes in the background.

When Paterson picks the phone back up, she hasn't changed her mind.  "I'm sending Francine to pick you up.  You shouldn't drive."