Page 115 of Where I Should’ve Been

“It’s going to be okay,” Randy assures me confidently, eyes on the road and one tight fist clenched around the wheel. “You got her out…you got them out.”

I nod. I know. I did. And the feeling is poisonously bittersweet.

To think I made it this time when I couldn’t for Abigail and Lucy. To think, even now, I still don’t know if Breezy and the baby are okay.

I pray to a God I abandoned long ago, and I do it without shame. I beg for mercy. I beg for compassion.

I beg for Beatrice Bishop and the baby in her belly.

I beg.

Please, God. Please let them be okay. Please don’t let this end in devastation a second time.

Please don’t make me regret where I should’ve been a second time.

Please, I beg. If you have to take someone, take me instead.

46

Tad

Ten Years Ago

March 14th

Debris falls all around me as my oxygen alarm rings out into the quickly dwindling space. Thick black smoke cloaks my face and robs me of my sense of direction, and a heat unlike I’ve ever felt licks at me from every bearing.

Water sprays on me in waves, droplets splattering across my mask through the cloud of smoke and rendering me even more useless. A sooty paste coats the clear surface, smearing badly when I try to rub at it with my glove. I swallow, choking on an airlessness as the tank strapped to my back depletes, but I won’t be deterred. I rip off the mask and toss it aside, sinking to the floor to find any bit of clean air I can.

Hands pull at my legs as I try to crawl forward, and my lungs get heavier and heavier by the millisecond. I hold my breath, but after a minute or two of very slow progress forward, the edges of my consciousness start to fade. My brain feels thick, my decision-making officially gone. I collapse to the floor, using every vestige of control I have left to submit myself to God himself.

I’m not going to make it. Abigail, Lucy, me—none of us are going to make it out alive.

I hug the floor, memories of Abigail and Lucy and me at the kitchen table over the weekend filtering into my sluggish mind. I see Abby’s smile and hear Lucy’s laugh and feel the warmth of their hugs as they pile into my lap and rain kisses all over my face.

My skin tingles, and my heart slows.

And then, in one peaceful moment, it’s all over.

…

“Tad!”

A voice slams through the ringing in my ears as a strip of white light cuts across my eyes. I flinch, coughing hard enough to split my ribs open, air tearing down my throat like glass while someone tugs and stabs at my arm, dragging me back into full, panicked consciousness.

“Abby!” I yell, shoving at the person at my arm and struggling to sit up.

“Easy, Tad. Easy.”

My head turns toward the voice, and through the blur, I see Randy. His helmet is off, his face is soot-streaked, and his eyes are bloodshot and wet. His turnout gear is half unbuckled, the reflective tape warped and blackened.

“Take a deep breath, Tad.” His eyes meet mine, blocking the light in severe shadow. His hand puts weight on my shoulder, pinning me down.

“Abby—” My voice breaks. I grab desperately at his arms. “Where’s Abby? Where’s Lucy?”

My cry is broken. My questions, statements.

I know where they are. I know.