Details about Too Hot to Handle by B.R. Curry
Hogan was roughly twenty-seven years old to my twelve when I started going to the firehouse. Whenever I was there, I had the run of the kitchen, the bay, unless there was a call and Uncle Nate’s office. One of my favorite things to do was help wash the fire trucks. I was in charge of the tires and anything within my reach on the sides. I’m pretty sure I got more soap on the concrete and me than I did the trucks.
I spent many an hour with Uncle Nate’s assistant, Ms. Jean, who always had candy hidden away just for me. I remembered one time, Ms. Jean bought a new bag of Reese’s Pieces, my favorite snack, and Uncle Nate had walked in during my second helping. “Ms. Jean,” he said, “you know you spoil her with all that candy.