Rescued By the Firefighter (Heroes of Whispering Pines #1)

LANA

"Gatsby's green light isn't about the dock." I let out a dramatic yelp and it pulls a chuckle from two students in the front row. For a high school audience, I have to take that as a win.

I tap the open book against my palm and turn away from the board. It’s third period, the good class. There are probably fifteen kids who actually did the reading, eight who pretend convincingly, and five who are at least awake. By my standards, a miracle.

"It's about the distance," I say. "Daisy is the dock. The dock is Daisy. But the light is the part of himself he can't get back no matter how hard he tries. The version of him that still believed wanting something was enough to make it real is gone."

Maya, a girl in the second row, leans forward. Her pen works the page of her notebook as she scratches furiously. She’s quiet, but I’ve had a good connection with her from day one. She’s going places.

"So Miss Summers, Gatsby's not even in love with Daisy then?" someone asks.

"Not really. He's more in love with the idea of who he was when he met her…"

Eyes light up and real learning unfolds.

Third period is the one hour of my day I almost forget.

Almost. I can forget the chair I've been wedging under my bedroom doorknob for the last two years.

Forget the way I stand three feet back from any window.

Forget what I'm actually doing in this building, in this town, in this life…

Which boils down to hiding, dressed up in lesson plans.

But for forty-seven minutes, three times a week, nothing else matters. I get to be a woman explaining a book and building relationships with kids who will change our world for the better.

I open my mouth to keep going. But the fire alarm cuts me off. Ugh, another drill. I must have missed the email. But we haven’t done one in a while so I guess it makes sense.

“Alright, leave your things, let’s—” The smell hits and I stop talking.

It’s not the dry electrical bite of a pulled station. It’s something thicker. There’s a woody smell that’s all wrong and then… smoke.

I watch the students’ faces shift into fear and panic as realization sweeps across my class.

My body moves before my brain catches up.

Training does that. We've drilled it twice a year since my first contract.

Door check, hallway check, count, evacuate.

I've run it in my head a hundred more times than that, because I run everything in my head. I cross to the door, press the back of my hand against it. It’s definitely warm, but not hot.

"Up. Now. Line at the door. Bags stay."

Chairs scrape against the floor. In the corner of my eye I see a boy in the back grab his backpack anyway. My heart races.

"Bags stay, Devon."

It drops.

I crack the door and peer out, my throat dry. There is smoke in the hallway. It’s thin, gray, and drifting at the ceiling like a slow tide. But it’s not a wall yet and the east stairwell is clear.

"East stairwell. Single file. Hand on the shoulder of the person in front of you. Quiet voices. We’re going to be fine. But move now. Move."

They don’t need to be told twice. The same kids who can't get to their seats in under three minutes on a Tuesday are out the door in twenty seconds. I count them as they pass, putting a hand on each shoulder I can reach. When the last is out I pull the door closed behind me.

The stairwell smells like cedar burning. I’m struck by a wave of calm focus. I keep my hand on the railing and my eyes on the back of the last student's head. I walk them down two flights and out the east doors into the lot.

The cold air hits me, but I don’t relax. The sound of sirens echoes in the distance. Kids are spilling out of the south doors. The choreography of it is strangely calm. I count heads.

One-two-three-four… twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven.

My heart rate ticks up as I scan the faces in front of me. I count again. Only twenty-seven. I scan for faces as the blood rushes to my ears.

Maya. "Where's Maya?"

A boy with one earbud still in turns. "She went to the bathroom. It was, like, right before."

Shit. She’s been in there for three minutes, maybe four.

I pull my radio and practically shout into it. “Office, this is Lana. I’m missing a kid. She’s in the building.”

But the traffic over the airwaves is congested with teachers accounting for their classes and administrators instructing that help is on the way. I look back at the building.

Smoke is coming out of the second-floor windows on the north side now. It’s lazy and gray but getting blacker as I watch. The second-floor bathroom is on the north side. Past the gym. Around two corners from my classroom.

"Stay here," I say, to no one in particular and everyone. "Count them again. Twenty-seven. Don't lose twenty-seven."

The teacher from across the hall opens his mouth. I can’t hear him because I'm already running. I rip open the east doors and prop them as I head for the stairwell. The way the smoke gets darker on the second floor is like walking into a room with the lights turning off behind me.

I keep low. I pull a sleeve over my mouth. My eyes sting behind my glasses and stream with tears. The hallway is already black. It’s the kind of darkness that leaves only the strip lights along the floor still glowing. I follow those. Past the trophy case and toward the gym.

"Maya!"

A cough answers to the left, and just like that I’m running again.

I find her by the gym doors. She’s on her knees with one hand braced flat against the metal and the other pressed over her face. Her eyes are enormous over her sleeve. She isn't crying. She's doing math, I can see her doing it, calculating the distance to a door she can't see.

"I couldn’t find the door.” She’s sobbing and I take her hand in mine. “I got so turned around and I can’t see.”

“Hey, we’re okay. I’ve got you. Let’s go.”

The sound of something crashing behind me makes me jump.

I push Maya in front of me and keep a hand on her back.

We make it past the second water fountain.

I can see the exit sign through the smoke now.

It’s blurred but red, and I shove her the last six feet through the doorway and into the stairwell.

Another loud bang has me gasping for air.

"Go. Go down. Don't stop."

Maya does. I turn to follow her. But when I do, the hallway behind me isn't a hallway anymore. Instead it's a wall. It’s black, moving, and disorienting. The smoke line is lower than it was four seconds ago. Somehow it just dropped like a curtain.

The floor is hot through the soles of my flats and my head spins. I drop to my knees and try to see the way out. Cough into the crook of my elbow. Try to crawl and get maybe a foot before I have no idea if I’m heading in the right direction or straight back into the flames.

This can’t be how it ends. I didn’t do all of this to end up stopping right before the finish line. And to think, I never even unpacked my kitchen.