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Two blocks later, I rounded a corner and was greeted by a chaotic sight. An apartment building was on fire, with five fire engines and at least a dozen firefighters on the scene. I glanced at my watch again; Liam, Mateo, and Jack would have started their shift about an hour ago. Maybe they were here.
I took my camera out of the carrying case, switched to a longer lens, and began snapping photos. One of the fire engines had extended its ladder up to the fifth floor, and civilians were climbing down feet-first. I said a silent prayer that everyone would be okay as I captured photos of the tragedy.
“Vega and Campbell said they have it covered!” one firefighter shouted in response to someone’s question.
Hey! That’s Mateo and Liam! All the firefighters looked the same with their equipment and helmets on, and I resisted the urge to run up and ask who was who. This was a serious fire, so much worse than the one that had ravaged my childhood home.
Instead, I continued capturing the scene with my camera. It was still the golden hour, which cast everything in a perfect light. Not to mention the added glow of the fire. It was difficult to find beauty in a destructive tragedy like this, but there was beauty in the human spirit. Men and women risking their lives to save others. Grateful people crying out on the grass, praising the firefighters and thanking God. Mr. Rogers was right: whenever something scary was happening in the world, you could cheer yourself up by looking for the helpers.
Suddenly, there was a huge crashing sound up near the ladder. A massive fireball rose into the air, accompanied by the blackest smoke I had ever seen. I shook off my surprise and swung my camera up toward it, hoping everyone was okay.
The firefighters were shouting and panicking. I hadn’t been around many fires in my life, but that seemed like a bad sign.
“Franco’s PASS device just activated,” someone urgently said.
“God damnit,” cursed the only man there who wasn’t wearing a helmet. He looked like he was in charge, a Captain or Lieutenant or whatever. I didn’t know firefighter ranks. “Get two more ladders up there! And send a team through the front!”
His hand-held radio crackled. “Vega here. Campbell and I are on it.”
“Be safe, engine five,” the guy in charge said.
It all happened in a rush of names and information. Vega and Campbell were going in.
After Franco.
I dropped my camera and sprinted over to the man with the radio. “Did you say Franco? Jack Franco?”
He scowled at me. “This is an active scene!”
“You don’t understand,” I said urgently. “I know Jack Franco. He’s my…”
He was my…
He was my what?
Jack Franco had been a lot of things in my life. The first person I met after we moved to Florida. My neighbor. My enemy, my nemesis. My teasing annoyance. My rescue after a disastrous prom. My biggest frustration. My uninvited protector. My crush.
My friend.
So many thoughts ran through my head as the man in charge stared down at me. His expression had grown serious. Like a man who only had bad news, and didn’t want to deliver it.
“Get back!” he finally said. “Get behind the trucks!”
“I know Mateo Vega and Liam Campbell too!” I said. “Please, I just want to know if they’re okay.”
“Ashford!” he shouted. “Get her away from here!”
Another firefighter, a woman, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me away. She said soothing words, empty platitudes. All the things you said to someone who was worried. I could hear the falseness in her voice, the doubt she felt at her own words.
I sat down on the curb across the street, and the woman went jogging back toward the fire. I was shaking as I stared at the building, which now had two floors engulfed in fire on the right side. There were three men who were important to me, and all three of them were inside that building. One in trouble, and two more rushing to help.
So much of life was filled with distractions and worries. Jobs and clients. Rent, bills, and student loan payments. The neighbor in the Queens apartment next to me that watched football on max volume and screamed at his TV. Every-day decisions that never seemed to end: what to eat for lunch, what music to listen to on the subway, what show to watch before bed.
Yet as I sat there on the curb watching an important part of my life burn away, a strange clarity came over me. None of those little things mattered. They weren’t life. They were the fluff that surrounded life, but they weren’t life itself.
People were what actually mattered. Sisters, lovers, friends.
As I watched the smoke pour out of a dozen windows, I realized a fundamental truth: Jack Franco was someone deeply important to me. I had been confused about that for most of the day, but I was confused no longer. If anything happened to him, my life would be irrevocably damaged, like a tear on a priceless painting. Maybe it could be repaired, the wound covered and hidden, but the damage would always be there.
