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Or so I’ve told myself.
I clear my throat and refocus on the question I was answering. What was I saying?
Right. Girl loves guy, guy wants to love girl, but guy seems unable to take a leap without his mom interfering. . .it’s a situation straight out of (un)Attached, and in that novel, the guy attached at the hip to his mother was not the hero.
“I have to say, Fed Up in the 312, that you’re right to be concerned. A man who asks his mom to do his laundry at the age of thirty-two is probably not in any hurry to become a self-sufficient member of society. Maybe this guy is showing you what you do and don’t want in a relationship—”
I cough, then write down the time.
“Maybe this guy is the precursor to the real thing. The one who—”
Another cough. I pause the recording.
Is it hazy in here?
I walk over to the mini fridge in the studio and pull out a bottle of water, but as I do, I notice my eyes are starting to burn.
And the smell is thicker than it was even a few minutes ago.
But then it hits me.
There are no windows in my basement. And it’s the start of autumn—too early for leaf burning.
I open the studio door and pull in a thick, gray plume of choking smoke. It fills the room and my lungs, immediately blacking out my sight and cutting off my oxygen.
My house is on fire.
My eyes go wide, and I slam the door as I struggle to breathe. I fall to the floor, gasping for air, feeling underwater but not underwater. I’m coughing, trying to remember what you’re supposed to do if there’s a fire in your house.
Do I run up the stairs? Is there another exit? Should I stop, drop, and roll?
No. My house, not me, is on fire.
What do I do?
What if I can’t get out?
I push my panic down, or at least try to.
“Think, Emmy, think!” I croak as I search the space for anything helpful.
Armchair in the corner. Throw pillows. Bookshelves lining the walls. My computer. Desk. Microphone. Recording equipment. None of these things are going to help.
Now that I’m out from under my headphones, I can hear the crack-CRACK-ssss of fire eating away the wood walls of my home.
I need to get out of here.
I never bring my phone in the studio when I’m recording in order to prevent unnecessary distractions. The smoke, hanging in the room like a fabric fog, doesn’t care.
I army crawl to the center of the room, panic wrestling out of the box I’ve put it in.
“Stay calm, Emmy,” I say out loud. “You’re smart. You can figure out what to do.”
I crawl over to my laptop and flip it open. I’ll send a message out on social media or try to contact the Harvest Hollow Fire Department through the internet.
I quickly switch from The Hopeful Romantic Facebook page over to my personal account, and that’s when I hear banging.
It sounds like things are being flung around above me, stomping, sliding, footsteps.
