You are a Johnston firefighter, and on your back is thirty minutes of air.

The building is a quarter-mile long. From the front door to the far wall is fifteen to twenty minutes on foot, if nobody is in the way. On July 23, somebody was in the way: about 850 people, coming out the front door, because that is the door they know, past 55 others that were also doors.

Nobody pulled the alarm. A conveyor belt on the second floor was on fire, and it was reported the way you would report a pothole.

Do the arithmetic. Twenty minutes in. That leaves ten. Ten minutes is enough air to put out a small fire, or to walk a third of the way back, but not both, and the building has not yet said which one it would prefer.

The department has asked for air canisters inside the building and hose long enough to reach, about $50,000 to $75,000 worth. The building is up to code, and so is the quarter-mile. A formal letter is being written. The building will consider it.

Meanwhile you have been there about 200 times since it opened, four times a week, 160 of them for somebody who felt sick. You do not mind. You would rather carry a person a quarter-mile than not. But you have started to know the walk the way you know your own stairs, which is a strange thing to know about someone else's warehouse.

On the day of the fire, by the chief's account, the question of turning the power off went to corporate. Corporate is not in the building. Corporate has its own air.

The building pays the town about $7.2 million a year, and it paid for four of you. The town is grateful. Four of you, at thirty minutes each, is two hours of air for a quarter-mile of building.

Nobody was hurt. The fire was small. You walked out the long way, because the short way was full, and on your way out you counted the doors.