Sandra goes, and I follow because we have no other option. At least not one that we might actually survive.
The hallway is disorienting in the smoke. I know this floor. I have walked this floor most workdays for years, know every turn and doorway, know exactly how many steps from the records room to the break room to the copy room at the end of the hall. I count them now in my head, keeping my hand on the baseboard, Sandra's shoes in front of me, and I think about Cora.
I think about her in that line with her class, hope with everything in me that they got her out. She would have been scared. She's brave, one of the bravest people I know, but she would have been scared, and I wasn’t there, and that is the thought that is going to undo me if I let it, so I don't let it.
I count steps instead. I follow Sandra's shoes, and I think about how happy I’m going to be when I get out of here.
The copy room door is where it should be, and Sandra pushes it open and we crawl through and she pulls it shut behind us. The smoke is thinner in here, not thin, but enough so that we can breathe. We pull ourselves up to sitting against the far wall and I drag in two breaths that feel like the first real ones I've had since this started. It gives me enough energy to do what we need. The co-worker I had originally followed has all but checked out on us, but Sandra? She’s ready to survive this, just like I am.
The window is above us. Sandra is already on her feet, bent as low as she can, moving toward it.
"Help me," she begs, her voice shaky.
I get up. My legs are trembling in a way I have to ignore. We get to the window and I reach past her and find the latch and it resists for one terrible second before it gives, and Sandra shoves the lower pane up with both palms.
The air that comes in is fresh, and I press my face toward it and breathe.
"Here!" Sandra is leaning out, waving both arms. "Third floor, copy room, side street! Help us!”
I lean out beside her and look down, and I can see the scene below. There are trucks, hoses, people, and there’s a water main flowing. It’s controlled chaos, and people in gear moving along the side of the building. One of them looks up, and I scream, hoping they hear me, that they see me.
I don't know if it's him. I can't tell from all the way up here, can't distinguish faces under the masks and helmets, but one of them sees us and raises an arm and radios something immediately, and I feel the first real loosening in my chest since the alarm went off. I want to cry, but I refuse to let myself.
They know where we are.
"Stay by the window," I tell Sandra, because my brother told me that once and it's the only protocol I can think of right now. "Stay low and stay by the window."
She nods, already braced against the sill.
I don't know how long it takes. It feels like a long time and is probably less than three minutes. I hear them before I see them. The door behind us gives way as a hard boom breaks it in. There are voices and I thank God with everything I have.
"Fire department! Anyone in there?"
"Yes!" My voice comes out wrecked and loud. "Three people, we're here! Help us, please! "
The door opens and two figures come through it in full gear, masks and tanks, moving fast and low, and the first one reaches me and gets a hand on my arm and I grab onto that arm with both hands and don't let go.
"I've got you." The voice is muffled through the mask but I know it. I know it. "I've got you, Trish. You're okay."
Mark.
I cannot speak. I nod against his shoulder and he gets an arm around me, and I hear Gunner behind us getting to Sandra, and the other co-worker. We’re moving them, like a well-oiled machine. Mark keeps me low and keeps his body between me and the smoke and I follow every direction he gives me without question because my brain has handed all decision-making authority over to him entirely.
The stairwell is smoky but passable now that they’ve started putting the fire out. We go down in a tight group, Gunner with Sandra and the other co-worker just ahead of us, and Mark's hand never leaves my arm. He's talking the whole time, short practical sentences that don’t have emotion, and I realize this is how he makes it through this. It’s nothing more than step here, duck your head, almost there, keep moving, and I focus on his voice the way I focused on Sandra's shoes in the hallway.
The lobby is chaos and then we're through the front doors and the fresh air fills my lungs. I drop to my knees on the pavement just outside the entrance and put both hands flat on the ground and breathe.
Mark crouches next to me immediately, his mask pushed up. "Trish. Look at me."
I look at him.
His face is all I see. Soot on his jaw, eyes scanning me fast and precise, the way I imagine he looks at every person he pulls out of a building, checking, assessing, and then his hand is on my face, tilting it up.
"Are you hurt?"
"No." My voice sounds like gravel. "I don't think so."
"Did you hit your head? Lose consciousness?"
