I know we are at the command post, because there is a man in a uniform standing in front of a whiteboard, where another man is making lists with a stinky, squeaky marker the way humans do. Humans love writing things, especially with squeaky markers. It’s not a skill us dogs have ever needed, because we remember what’s important and can smell whatever we need to know. Humans would probably write down a description of a smell instead of just, you know, smelling it.

I know we’re in the parking lot, because there are cars and trucks and car-and-truck smells everywhere. People are moving all around, some away from the billowing smoke of the giant building and some toward it. Everyone moving toward it is in a uniform, so I figure these are my colleagues today. It’s nice to see their bravery in the face of danger. I’ve learned that I only need to get nervous when the people around me are nervous, and if they’re calm and focused, then I can be too. We take our cues from each other. Sometimes, if I sense they’re nervous, I can even calm them with a lick or a nuzzle. I’m good at calming people, and they’re good at calming me too. We’re a team. We’ve practiced looking out for each other since ancient times.

Right now, it’s the commander of the post who’s making me feel calm. He’s speaking firmly but quickly to the firefighters around him. Then he finally talks to our team leader, pointing and explaining things. I don’t understand everything he’s saying and I find it hard to hear through the windows of the truck and the sounds of sirens that are everywhere. There are so many smells and sights, I almost want to curl up in a ball and hide.

But I don’t.

I know I can do better than hide.

I stay ready.

Radios chirp and squawk like birds, but none of the people are paying any attention to the noise. Everyone has a job to do and everyone is doing their best at it. I feel a little silly sitting in the back of this truck, panting while I wait for the chance to do what I’m trained for.

Already, I’m trying to sort the smells that are drifting my way. This is something that most humans don’t know about dogs: We make plans. We think about the future. I know that if I do certain things, I’ll get certain results, and because I know that, I can try to plan for the results I want. I place toys where I can find them again; I sit by doors so I can greet my handler when she comes in; I sniff the air everywhere I go, so I know what to expect. Dogs are hunters and pack animals, and you can’t hunt with a pack without making predictions and plans.

So now I am thinking about what happens next.

The humans are setting up areas to treat injured people and to get seriously hurt people into ambulances that zoom away. Firefighters are putting on heavy equipment and moving toward the giant burning building. Men and women with blue sirens on their cars and trucks are trying to organize everyone who isn’t a firefighter, to keep them out of the way. It looks like chaos to me, but I know enough about humans who spend all their time trying to rescue people that there is order to the chaos. These humans make plans and predictions too, and they’re doing their best right now.

Something changes suddenly though. The commander barks orders and now people are moving away from the huge building faster, even the firefighters. They look up at the bright blue sky, pointing and chattering, and their fear is obvious. The command post is suddenly on the move.

I don’t know what they’re afraid of, but from the smell of jet fuel in the huge fire, I think it has to do with airplanes.

Just then my temporary handler approaches the truck, along with another member of the FEMA team. They immediately hop in and start to back the truck up.

“You really think there’s another plane coming?” the driver asks.

“Who knows?” my handler says. She smells like sandalwood and cut grass and an antiperspirant chemical in her deodorant, and also like coffee and laundry detergent, and the peanuts and chocolate from a granola bar she ate. She always eats those bars; they’re one of the main ways I recognize her.

Under it all is still that onion scent of fear.

“It doesn’t change our job,” she tells the driver as he pulls us up to a place farther from the burning building. The air is a little clearer here, which I appreciate, though it means I have less access to all the smells coming from the disaster, smells I’ll need to sort through when I’m inside. “When we get the all clear, we move in to search.”

“He ready?” the driver nods toward the back seat—toward me. I perk up and stop panting.

The handler smiles. “Sure he is,” she says. “He passed all the certifications and is a top-rated live-find and cadaver dog. If there’s anyone to rescue, he’ll find them.” She lowers her voice into that cooing tone people sometimes use with dogs. “Won’t you, good boy? Won’t you, Sage? Yes!”

I salivate at her “yes” because it’s one of my cue words. In training, every time I get a “yes” I get a treat or a game of tug. I can’t help but shift on my paws now, expecting one or the other of my favorite things. I even bark to show her I understand the “yes” cue, because people like to know when I understand them. She tosses me a treat, which I catch midair.

Yeah, I’m good like that.

Then she turns around and they sit in silence, watching the sky.

I stare out the window, watching the people, who are watching the building burn, and waiting for my turn to help. Through the noise, I hear a rumbling and the smell changes a little. I don’t know what it means, but I’m sensitive to all sorts of changes, even from this far away. I feel something shift. The fur on my back stands up; my tail tightens and tucks.

This is dog fear, instinctual. I don’t always know what causes it, but I know to trust it when I feel it. The sound and the change in smell—the strange shift of atmosphere—is not coming from the sky. I don’t hear a plane, though there are firefighters on megaphones announcing that one is inbound, twenty minutes out, and telling people to get away from the building.

But the change is coming from the building itself. The smoke rising from the huge hole gets blacker, thicker. It’s not another plane. Something else is wrong.

I let out a whine and my handler looks back at me. I lay down in the back, put my head on my paws, and stare at her, signaling. But she doesn’t know what I mean by it and turns back to look at the sky.

“It’s okay, Sage,” she tries to reassure me. I whine again, because I don’t have any other way of telling her, No, no it’s not okay. Something terrible is about to happen. I don’t know what it is, but it is not okay at all.