Cooper marches past the firehouse every morning. Stomp, stomp, stomp go his rubber boots on the sidewalk. The big red truck waits behind the tall garage door.
"Morning, Little Man!" the firefighters call. Cooper stops. He salutes — his arm wobbles like a crooked flagpole. He practices that wobbly salute all the way home.
The next morning, Cooper marches back. The gate is open a little wider. A firefighter holds out a tiny red helmet. Cooper's boots go still.
Cooper shrugs into the helmet. It slides down over his eyes. He pushes it up — the firefighters cheer, and the siren blares WEE-OOO! Cooper jumps back, then laughs until his shoulders shake.
Cooper stands on the firehouse steps, helmet tilted forward. He salutes the truck — his arm stays straight this time. The firefighters salute back.
The firefighters salute back. Cooper's rubber boots rest beside the coiled red hose on the garage floor. He is a Little Firefighter.
Every morning after that, Cooper marches past the firehouse. Stomp, stomp, stomp. The gate is always open a little wider.
Cooper waves. The firefighters wave back. He marches on, chin up, eyes bright. Someday he will drive the big red truck.
Stomp, stomp, stomp go his boots down the sidewalk. But this time, Cooper smiles. He knows the way now.
Behind him, the firehouse stands tall and red. The truck is ready. And Little Man is ready too.
