The fire station was quiet. Too quiet. That usually meant one of two things: either the fire trucks had snuck out for ice cream again, or the Dalmatian had taken over the dispatch radio. Both had happened before. I was polishing my helmet when the alarm went off, not with a siren, but with a chicken clucking into the microphone. “Bawk bawk, emergency!” it said. That was our signal. Time to roll. We slid down the fire pole (which is actually greased with maple syrup, long story) and landed in our boots. The trucks revved their engines, ready for adventure. The Dalmatian barked something that sounded suspiciously like, “To the donut shop!” but we ignored him. Dispatch reported a three-alarm situation: a dragon was roasting marshmallows on Main Street again, and the town was running dangerously low on graham crackers. The people were terrified — not of the dragon, but of running out of s’mores before movie night. We roared out of the station, sirens blaring “la-la-la” instead of the usual “wee-woo.” That’s how you know our fire trucks are in a good mood. Halfway there, the dragon called my cellphone. “I told you,” he said, “I’m just trying to get the chocolate melted right. Why’s everyone freaking out?” We arrived on scene. The dragon was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the street, skewering twenty marshmallows on a single telephone pole. The crowd was panicking, but I knew what to do. I reached into the fire truck’s secret compartment and pulled out the Giant Golden Water Balloon of Truth. “Hey, buddy,” I shouted. “If you want gooey marshmallows, just ask. You don’t have to scorch the sidewalks.” The dragon blinked. “Really? You’d help?” I nodded. Then I hurled the Golden Water Balloon. It didn’t burst. Instead, it popped open like a piñata, and out came a waterfall of perfectly toasted marshmallows. The dragon cried tears of joy. But there was still smoke. Too much smoke. I turned and saw the hot dog stand had joined the party. It was grilling so many hot dogs that ketchup clouds floated into the sky. We had to act fast. “Deploy the banana hose!” I ordered. My crew grabbed the special hose, which sprays banana pudding instead of water. The pudding cooled the hot dogs instantly, and every kid in town rushed forward with spoons. Crisis averted. Just when I thought it was over, the mayor came running. “Firefighter!” he gasped. “The popcorn factory is out of butter!” I sighed. “Again?” We drove the fire truck straight into the factory. Inside, kernels were bouncing everywhere like ping-pong balls. We pulled the Butter Blaster 3000 off the truck and sprayed golden rivers of melted butter. The popcorn exploded into the sky and rained down over the town square, giving everyone free snacks for a week. The day was saved. The dragon promised to only roast marshmallows in his backyard from now on, and the townspeople built him a giant s’more as a thank-you. We drove back to the station, covered in pudding, butter, and popcorn. The Dalmatian turned to me and said, “Next time, can we fight something easier? Like a giant spaghetti monster?” I laughed. “Kid, when you’re a firefighter, every day is pasta night.” And that’s why my fire helmet smells like marshmallows to this day.