Doreen Carlson considered herself to be a mild-mannered, well put-together woman. She had married appropriately, had two children, and aged appropriately into her mid-fifties. She never fussed with dyeing her hair, and considered her silver strands a gift from God, a shining crown for fulfilling her earthly duties to raise her children and take care of her husband. Doreen never once forgot a birthday, never neglected a holiday, and certainly never failed to issue a thank you card within the appropriate time frame. That was why today Doreen Carlson found herself standing on unsure ground, staring at the outside of the Jasmine Hills Fire Department Station 3, and wondering whether she should enter through the wide open garage doors or go around looking for some sort of doorbell. She stood outside, squinting beneath her sunglasses, holding a large muffin basket with a cheerful checkered bow on the handle.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

Ah, the sweet sound of assistance. Doreen smiled at the handsome young firefighter who’d come to her aid. “Yes, I’m just wondering? Actually I’m looking for someone. The young man who pulled my daughter Desiree from the Ashton Street Diner fire two days ago.”

“That would be Burke Armstrong,” the young man said, pointing inside the firehouse. “Just go through here, in that door there, and someone should be able to find him for you.”

“Thank you,” she said with a courteous nod. She followed his instructions and entered the air conditioned part of the firehouse. “Excuse me, but I’m looking for Mr. Burke Armstrong.”

“You his mother?” the guy asked.

“No,” she said firmly.

The portly man seated at the computer station got up from his seat and walked to a staircase partially concealed by a large bookcase. He yelled up the steps, “Yo, Armstrong! Visitor!”

Doreen forced a polite smile when the fat guy returned to his seat. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Footfalls sounded on the stairs and a handsome, chestnut-haired, strapping young lad appeared, dazzling Doreen with his baby blue eyes.

He sure knew how to wear a uniform.

“Are you Mr. Armstrong?” Doreen asked, striding forward and offering her hand. He shook it, a nice, firm grip that implied his strength as he nodded at her. “My name is Doreen Carlson. My daughter is the one you pulled out of the Ashton Street Diner fire two days ago.”

Recognition dawned and Burke nodded. “Oh, yes. Um? how is she?”

“She’s in a coma,” Doreen said evenly, unashamed at what she considered to be a minor setback. “She’s been very badly burned, as I’m sure you noticed.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the light in his eyes dimmed slightly to match the sorrow in his voice.

“Anyway,” Doreen said, holding the muffin basket out to him, “these are for you, to say thank you for risking your life to bring my daughter to safety.”

“Aw, you didn’t have to do that!” Burke insisted, “I was just doing my job.”

“Now, now, saving a life is not just any job,” Doreen countered. “And besides, this particular life matters greatly to me, and I wanted to say thank you. Please allow me that small pleasure.”

“Well... sure,” Burke smiled. “When you put it like that, it’s hard to refuse.”

“Well, good,” Doreen replied. “All right, Mr. Burke, I’ve taken enough of your time, so I’m just going to go now, but you take care of yourself.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. “You too.”

“Thank you.” She started to walk away, but paused slightly at the door. “I hope we’ll see you again.”

She slipped through the door before he could give her an answer. Doreen smiled; she always liked having the last word.