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The Tipping Point
Sam
It’s four-thirty and I clock out for the day. I retrieve my jacket from my locker and see that I have a missed call from Sara and a voicemail. We have plans to see each other, so I assume that she’s calling to ask what I want to do tonight. I call her back but the call goes straight to voicemail, so I put on my jacket and put the phone back in my pocket, planning to call her again on the way home.
I stop at a traffic light and call Sara again, and again, it goes to voicemail. The light turns green, and I continue to drive, thinking she’s probably at my house. Maybe her phone died and she left her charger at home. But when I get there, I discover that she’s not home, and Lucky’s gone from his kennel. I check my voicemail and listen to Sara’s message. It’s more than four hours old. She should be back by now. Something feels off.
My phone rings in my hand, and I look at the screen. My heart races when I see the number.
“Hello?” I ask, balling up my fist and holding my breath.
“Hello, Sam. Do you know who this is?” he asks.
“Yeah, you’re the piece of human garbage that gets off on lighting matches. What do you want?”
“That’s no way to talk to someone who holds your entire life in his hand, Sammy boy.”
“What the fuck are you talking about, nutcase?” I snarl.
“I’m sending you something. Hang up and take a look. I’ll call you back in two minutes.”
The first picture is of the front of my father’s house. The second is the interior of the attached garage. The third is a photo of Sara taken through the front window, and the last photo is of my father’s bedroom door. He’s been in the house. The text indicator goes off again and one final picture appears. It’s a close-up picture of Lucky’s face. I grab my keys and run out the door. By the time he calls back, I’m already on my way to the house.
Blood is roaring in my ears. If something happens to Sara, I don’t know what I’d do to this bastard.
“So, now that you know what I’ve been up to, I suggest you speak to me with a nicer tone,” he tells me.
“Listen, asshole, nobody tells me what to do. I’ll talk to you the way you deserve, and when I find you, you’re gonna wish you were never born,” I spit into the phone.
“Oh well, I thought we could be civil. After all, you’re the one who caused this. You’re the one who decided to capitalize on my hard work. Now, everyone you care for has to suffer for your actions.” Pure rage quickens my blood, and I grip the steering wheel so tightly, my knuckles are white.
“Just tell me what you want,” I tell him, already speaking through clenched teeth.
“I want you to take accountability. Before you, I never hurt anybody. You brought me to this. You made this happen,” he accuses me.
“Who are you? If you wanted credit for these fires, why didn't you come forward and claim them? You’re just a sad, jealous coward hiding in the shadows.”
“NO! I was just like you once. I showed up first and saved people’s lives, but did anybody give me any praise? No. I had a few drinks too late the night before my shift and got shit canned. That was my reward for risking my life. Fired!” he shouts. His gush of fury and vitriol is not surprising, but I can use it to my advantage.
“You? You were a firefighter?”
“Not too bright, huh? You should have known that all along. Why did you think I left a Dalmatian?”
“You purposely left the dog inside, you sick shit?” My hands trembled, molting anger rolling through me. I need to get myself under control and clear my head.
“Yeah, a firehouse dog. The ultimate FU to the department.” He chuckles, and it’s like nails on a chalkboard—only irritating me further. “But you came along and screwed everything up. You had to be a hero.”
“You’re sick, man. You need help,” I reply, shaking my head in a morose combination of disgust and disbelief.
“Anyway, enough of that. You’re running out of time. You have a lot of people to save, hero,” he says and ends the call.
By the time he hangs up, I’m pulling up to my father’s house. I hit the curb, throw the truck in park, and jump out. Everything looks alright from the outside, and I go to the door and check the knob. It’s unlocked, and I open it and step inside where I’m immediately met with an odor similar to gasoline. My heart races and I cry out, “Sara? Dad?” But no one answers.
I rush up the stairs and begin opening the bedroom doors. Sara’s room is empty, and I come up to my father’s door. I throw open the door and when I do, I hear a snap and see that the door’s wired, and I’ve just lit the fuse.
My father and Susan are lying on the bed and are unresponsive to my cries. I rush to them and try to wake them, but neither regains consciousness, so I scoop Susan up and rush her down the stairs and out the front door, dropping her lightly on the grass. Then, I rush back inside and up the stairs. The fire spreads quickly, and I have to hug the wall as I maneuver back to the bedroom. The heat from the flames scorches my skin as I reach my father and throw him over my shoulder. He starts to regain consciousness and thrashes in my arms when he sees the flames.
“Easy dad, just hold on,” I tell him. “We’re almost there.”
