Your windpipe is closing and you've lost track of which way is out. They've budget cut your ladder company from six to five, so now everything you do is 16.67 percent more difficult and more dangerous. Your air is low. Inside your mask you're throwing up. There's a searing ember down your neck.
Torn gloves expose a smashed hand.
So you emerge from the holocaust hugging, with your elbows, somebody's singed kitten. Fire and ice. You've had minutes of exhilaration on the bouncing rear mount of a steaming hundred foot Seagrave, hours of using all you've learned and learning more. Now you're back at the station house. Next come the tedious hours as you and Brillo gang up on the grimy tools.