The Soup Pot at Station Four

Station Four was a small fire station on Mill Road. Four people worked there on Thursdays. Every Thursday one of them made dinner.

This week it was Wesley's turn. He was a tall man with big hands. He was good with hoses. He was not good with soup.

At noon he put a big pot on the stove. He added water, carrots, and a bag of white beans. Then he looked at his phone.

"Ten minutes," he said. "Then I check the soup."

A bell rang in the yard. A truck needed a new tire. Wesley went outside to help. The kitchen was empty.

Stellan walked in. He was thin and quiet. He lifted the lid and smelled the pot.

"Hmm," he said. "It smells like nothing."

He looked around. He saw a jar of dry herbs on the shelf. It was green and old. He put in four big spoons.

"Now it smells like soup," he said. He left the room.

Next came Valentina, the captain. She was a short woman with a loud voice. She tasted the soup with a spoon.

"This is water with beans," she said. "No taste at all."

She took a small red jar from her bag. It held her favorite hot pepper. She put in a big pinch. Then she added another. Then a third one, to be safe.

"Better," she said. She walked out.

A little later Wesley came back. His hands were black from the tire. He tasted the soup.

"It is too hot," he said. "And too green. What happened?"

He thought for a moment. Then he took a bottle of milk from the fridge. He put in a big cup. The soup turned a strange pink color.

"Hmm," he said. "That is not right."

He found a lemon and cut it in half. He squeezed both halves into the pot. The soup made a small noise. It looked worse.

"I will leave it," said Wesley. "Maybe it will be fine in time."

At six the table was ready. Four plates and four spoons. A tall pot of pink soup sat in the middle. Everyone looked at it.

"What is in this?" asked Valentina.

"Beans," said Wesley.

"And herbs," said Stellan.

"And pepper," said Valentina. She looked at the others. "Did you all fix it?"

Nobody answered.

Then the alarm rang. It was loud and long. Four people jumped up. They ran to the truck. Nobody touched the soup.

It was a small job. A car horn stuck in a parking lot. They fixed it in forty minutes.

When they came back, the kitchen door was open. A young boy stood by the table. He was the son of the cook next door. His face was pink.

The pot was empty.

"I came to say hello," he said. "The door was open. I was so hungry. I ate a little. Then a little more. I am sorry."

The firefighters looked at each other.

"How was it?" asked Wesley, slowly.

"It was the best soup ever," said the boy. "Can I have the recipe?"

Wesley looked at Stellan. Stellan looked at Valentina. Valentina looked at the empty pot.

"Beans," said Wesley. "And a little of everything."

"Can you make it again?" asked the boy.

"No," the three of them said together.