Logbook Entry #47

I swung by Mitchell’s room today just to check in on him. Y’know, make sure he hadn’t set anything—or himself—on fire in the last 48 hours. The guy’s door was half-open, so I knocked a couple of times and walked in without waiting for a reply because, well, it’s Mitchell.

First thing I noticed?

Sure enough, there he was, sprawled out on his bed like a starfish, dead to the world. His face was half-smushed into a pillow, and his arm dangled over the side of the mattress, fingertips brushing an empty soda can. But the worst part? The smell. I thought the stale chips and pickles were bad, but then it hit me—his diaper reeked. Yeah, you read that right. Mitchell was in one of those weird phases again. I tried to shake him awake, but no luck. The guy was out cold, snoring just loud enough to drown out my gag reflex. Classic Mitchell.

Anyway, I sat down in the old desk chair, the one with the missing wheel, and it groaned louder than a firetruck siren. A split second later, I felt it—rumbling up from deep within me. Look, I’m a firefighter, not a magician. Sometimes nature calls, and today it called loud. One giant grunt and an absolute barn-burner of a fart exploded out of me, reverberating through the room like thunder. Mitchell whipped his head around from his laptop, his face somewhere between fear and disgust. “Seriously, Trent? My oxygen levels were fine until you came in.”

I laughed it off, stood up, and that’s when I caught sight of the clock. Oh, man. My shift starts in ten minutes. I just gave Mitchell a quick wave, mumbled something about "saving lives," and bolted, leaving him to marinate in whatever chaos I just brought into his tiny slice of the universe.

Journal: If you were in Trent’s shoes, would you have taken the time to change Mitchell’s pamper before rushing out, or do you think leaving was the right call given the time crunch? Why?