In one of the many moving anecdotes in Firehouse—a warm and suitably modest elegy to the 12 men of Engine 35, Ladder 40 who died on Sept. 11—author David Halberstam describes a young woman who walked by the station every morning after the attack. Each time, she would stop, scan the photos of the missing, and burst into tears. When finally asked if she knew one of the deceased, she pointed to a picture of Jimmy Giberson, a man she hadn't known beyond exchanging friendly waves, but whom she had silently adopted as her own "personal fireman." Sentiments like this one run throughout the book, which can seem suspiciously tame in its unambiguous treatment of firemen as protectors and heroes, beyond the skepticism of even a seasoned journalist like Halberstam. But Firehouse makes it clear that firefighters are rare among people in positions of authority, in that their valor is essentially pure and unimpeachable; unlike soldiers, policemen, or politicians, the only power they really have is to save lives, and that power cannot be corrupted. On assignment for Vanity Fair in mid-October 2001, Halberstam took root in a firehouse on Manhattan's Upper West Side, collecting details about its history and routines and gently inquiring about the men who died at the World Trade Center. The book is far from an exposé, yet it isn't a stone memorial, either: Halberstam treats his subjects with reverence, but his tone remains simple, tough, and resolutely dignified, a gesture to their own no-nonsense manner. (When politicians showed up to speak at funeral services, the men would brutally lampoon their purple rhetoric in private afterwards.) In an elegant narrative that weaves in and around the chronology of Sept. 11, Halberstam devotes much of his space to the 13 individuals aboard 40/35, only one of whom survived, with severe injuries. A few minor quirks about them linger, but their profiles bleed into each other until they're far more memorable as a collective. This isn't a failure of portraiture on Halberstam's part, but a testament to the unusual degree of intimacy the job requires, and the unwritten codes of behavior that have governed firehouses for generations. Unlike many other professions, firemen rely on a sense of shared duty, one that extends beyond putting out blazes and into minor chores like teaming up on home improvements during off hours. At its core, Firehouse is about a surrogate family that has sustained a great loss, and the touching ways in which it re-forms and endures.