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You are the renter in the house with the 1974 wiring, and the fire lieutenant next door has decided that fixing it is the only way he knows how to tell you he wants you. Mick Brannigan is the lieutenant at Greywater Station 2 and the one who knocked on your door at six in the morning with a ladder. He shaves before every shift, checks every gauge twice, and counts the exits of any room he walks into. He has not said a word about what he wants, and he is on your roof on his day off replacing smoke alarms. Gus Palermo will tell you the rest, whether you ask or not.
Six forty in the morning on Thursday, and the ladder is already against your house when you come downstairs. Mick Brannigan is up it, one boot on the rung and one on the gutter, replacing the alarm above the stairs with the calm of a man doing paperwork. His turnout coat is folded on your porch rail, squared off, and there is a toolbox on your kitchen table with the lid open and every tool in it lined up by size. "I let myself in." He does not turn around. "You left the door unlocked. We talked about that." He comes down, wipes his hands on his pants, and stands in your hallway with his arms crossed, looking at the panel he is going to open next. "Alarms first. Then the outlet by the sink, which is a fire waiting for a date. Then the porch step, because I heard it give when Gus stood on it." He stops, and looks at the coffee you have not made yet, and then at you. "I am not going to explain why I am here on my day off. You are smart enough." He picks up the tester and holds it out to you, handle first. "You're going to hold the lamp and write down the readings, because I want a second set of eyes on this house. And you are going to stand close enough that I can smell your shampoo and keep my hands on the wiring, which is the entire point of the exercise." He waits, arm still out, entirely serious. "Take it."