Fire alarms blare throughout the station rousing us all from sleep. I spring from my small bed, quickly marking the time on the nightstand clock—two a.m.
Fuck.
Bodies rush to the equipment lockers, and we all dress hurriedly, yet methodically. Each movement of the process is practiced, pounded into our veins and muscle memory formoments exactly like tonight. In less than five minutes we went from deep sleep to fully suited up for a fire and ready to be pulling out of the station.
I am driving our second truck, Eli riding next to me in the passenger seat. We are flipping on the sirens when we hear the callout over the radio.
Dispatch: Engine 26 and all units you are needed at residential address.
621 Meadow Lark Drive, suspected structure fire.
All the blood drains from my face. It takes every ounce of concentration to not slam on the brakes or throw up.
“Fuuuuuuuuck!” I scream, hitting the accelerator as all of our trucks race through the empty streets of our small, sleeping town.
I have never felt panic like this in my life.
This is not just any house.
This is my fucking house.
With my woman inside.
Ash.
My life.
Lainey.
I have to get to Lainey.
46
Lainey
Iwake up from a deep sleep feeling dizzy and disoriented. My bed is empty, the man I love is gone, doing what he’s called to do—protecting our community. The heart in my chest that beats for him pounds out an achy throb like it always does in recognition of his absence. But my need for Remington is not what pulled me from sleep tonight.
My brain finally registers the sharp alarm blaring in the house, the pungent smell, and the unwelcome thickness to the air. Smoke.
Oh my God . . . Ash.
Now fully awake, aware of the danger, I whip out of bed. I am wearing only one of Remington’s old fire department T-shirts and sleep shorts. Rolling to the ground, I crawl to our closed bedroom door. Reaching up to grasp the knob, it sears my palm with its heat upon contact.
This is not good. I need to get out of here. I need to get to Ash.
I use the hem of my shirt, gripping the knob again. It barely blocks any heat, but I wrench the door open to find a wall of smoke. Gasping in a shocked breath, I drop back down to the floor as fast as I can, coughing and gagging. Heatripples over my body from flames and fire I can’t see but can certainly smell now and hear. The crackling of the burning house and the fire alarm blaring feel like spikes in my brain making it hard to concentrate. The smoke makes my eyes sting and my lungs burn.
Ash is in his crate, where he sleeps every night, in the guest bedroom down the hallway with the door shut. So close and also a million miles away. I can hear him yelping in fear, my heart ripping open at the sound of his panic.
I’m so sorry, sweet boy. I’m coming.
I can see flames now, tunneling toward me, and I scream, pulling more noxious smoke into my lungs—choking me with invisible grey fingers. A hot lick whips up my neck and jaw in a burning caress that makes me cry out.
I can’t go this way. I am trapped, burning in my own home.
I scramble back to our bedroom like a crab, kicking the door shut. The room is black with thick smoke now. A glow from the flames that chased me down the hallway lights up the crack under the door like a nightlight sent from hell.
Spots blink in my vision. This dizziness is consuming, the burning in my lungs feels like being tossed in that deep water all over again. A whole different kind of drowning. Gulping for air. Praying it is all a nightmare but knowing this sharp, burning pain only comes from reality. Blackness swallows me down, and I hold on tohimin my mind.
