She Isn’t Fired

(A teenage neighbor babysits my son at her house, a few doors down from ours. My son would often go home quickly to get games and toys. One afternoon, I come home to find fire trucks and ambulances, the babysitter coughing on a stretcher, and smoke pouring out of my house.)

Me: “[Babysitter]? What happened?”

Babysitter: “It’s a really long story.”

Me: “Look. There are five fire trucks, my house is smoking, my kid is crying, and you’re struggling to breathe. Give me the short version.”

Babysitter: “Fine. Your son ran in, came out, said the house was full of smoke, and started crying. I ran in, found smoke, searched the house for people, found the dog, dragged her out, called 911, went back in again, searched for the fire and checked again for people, couldn’t breathe, ran back out, checked your son over to make sure he was okay, waited for the firefighters, and passed out from inhaling too much smoke. That about sums it up.”

Me: “You risked your life running back in like that. That’s really brave of you. You could’ve died if anything had happened.”

Babysitter: “My lungs beg to differ. They just think I’m stupid.”

Me: “Well, tell your lungs that you’re getting a raise out of this.”

Babysitter: *to EMT* “See? That’s what it takes to get a raise around here!” *high-fives EMT*