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Please note: I had a little help with the Gaelic, but all mistakes are strictly my own. Slainte Siobhan!

Fiona Martin was having the worst day ever. On this delightfully cold New England day, she was standing on the front lawn of her house with her high heels sinking into the mushy lawn. Shivering, she looked around for someone who could answer her questions. You would think with the number of Boston's finest emergency personnel on her lawn, she would be able to find out what was going on. Alas, she was being completely ignored. She wasn't surprised. She never did stand out in a crowd, at an even 5 feet tall, most people towered over her. Finally, she could take no more. She couldn't feel her legs and the wind seemed to be blowing through her red silk shirt.

"Excuse me!" She shouted. "This is my house. Could someone tell me what is going on??" She almost started stomping her feet to get the feeling back in them, but quickly realized that she would look like a toddler having a tantrum. She marched toward a group of firefighters clustered around a truck, determined to get an answer from one of them.

Trevor O'Leary and a few guys from his company were stowing their gear in the truck. Even though this had turned out to be a false alarm, they always came prepared, never knowing what kind of situation they would find themselves in. As he turned to grab a length of hose, he caught a glance of a small and disgruntled woman marching toward the truck. She ...

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