We thought she was gone.
The fire had already swallowed most of the second floor by the time the call came in. The old warehouse was supposed to be abandoned—just a hollow shell filled with broken beams, insulation, and boxes no one had touched in years. But as the crew from Station 14 rushed in, heavy smoke and collapsing rafters told a different story. Something was still alive inside.
Lieutenant Mark Dervishi was the first to push through the north entrance, his mask fogging as he crawled beneath the smoke. The structure was unstable, flames licking through the rafters above. While scanning the debris with his flashlight, he heard it: not the crackle of wood or the hiss of collapsing pipes, but a faint, panicked cry. A meow.
Against training that tells firefighters to prioritize human life first and foremost, Dervishi didn’t hesitate. “It was instinct,” he later said. “I heard her crying, and I just thought—if she’s still fighting in there, I’ve got to get her out.”
