Chapter 31 – Analyse
Chapter Thirty-One
ANALYSE
Stay calm.
That’s the only thing repeating in my head, over and over again, even as the smoke thickens and the classroom starts to feel like it’s shrinking. The air is no longer just heavy—it’s sharp, bitter, invasive. Each breath feels like swallowing splinters. My lungs ache. My eyes sting.
The door is no longer keeping the hallway sealed off. Smoke curls in through the edges, low to the ground, creeping like it has a purpose. Like it knows where we are.
Maya is crouched under the teacher’s desk, knees pulled to her chest, hugging her water bottle like it’s her last tether to safety.
My sweet baby girl. Her face is pale beneath the soot smudges, her eyes wide, too wide for a little girl.
But she hasn’t screamed. She hasn’t panicked. She’s just watching me.
“You’re doing so good, mamita,” I say as gently as I can, forcing steadiness into my voice even as my throat burns. “I promise I’m going to get us out.”
She nods, her lower lip trembling. My strong, brave girl.
I drop to my knees, coughing. The smoke’s getting worse by the second, clouding my vision and clogging my throat. I squint under the shelf where my phone is, but the haze has swallowed everything.
I can’t waste time. I push up, dizzy from the sudden movement.
“Maya,” I call out, crossing the room, knees shaking. “Come here, mi amor. We’re leaving.”
She climbs into my arms without hesitation, trusting me completely. Her little hands clasp around my neck, and I feel her heartbeat pounding against my chest. Too fast. I’m sure mine is no better.
I hoist her higher, pain blooming across my back, and stumble toward the door. The second I crack it open, the hallway answers.
A wall of heat slams into us—fast, wild, suffocating. The hallway is no longer just smoky…it’s hell. Orange light pulses through thick haze, and deep above us, something groans. Then cracks. Then gives.
A support beam crashes down without warning. A thunderclap of wood and steal and heat. Instinct takes over. I twist my body, shoving Maya toward the floor and throwing myself after her. Pain explodes through my left leg.
The impact is blinding, a bolt of lightning through bone. The beam slams just below my knee with the force of a truck, crushing everything beneath it. I hear something snap. Maybe me. Maybe the beam. I can’t tell.
The pain is too much. My scream stays trapped in my throat. I can’t breathe. Can’t move.
Maya is sobbing beside me, reaching for me. I hear her voice through the ringing in my ears, but I can’t focus on what she’s saying.
My vision swims. I blink hard. I need to move. Now.
“Mami?” she whimpers.
“I’m okay,” I lie. “I’m okay, mi amor.”
I can’t put weight on my leg, can barely crawl, but I have to. My arms lock around her, dragging her back inside with everything I have left. My fingers scrape the tile. I can’t feel my left foot. The fire behind us roars louder. The door is wide open. Smoke pours in like it’s chasing us.
I spot the bookshelf, wedge my body up against it, and heave. It’s heavy, too heavy with my leg screaming in agony, but I shove it into the doorway until it catches the warped frame. It won’t close completely. It’s not a seal. But it’s better than nothing.
Then I collapse.
My body crumples to the floor, breath hitching in broken gasps. My throat is raw. The taste of ash is everywhere. My jeans are soaked with blood. I don’t dare look at the wound.
Maya crouches beside me, tears streaking through the soot on her cheeks. Her tiny hand lands on my cheek. “Mami, you’re bleeding.”
“I know,” I rasp. My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “But I’m okay. Just need to rest for a second.”
The edges of the classroom blur. There’s not much light left, just the flickering red orange of the fire pressing against the walls outside. I glance toward the supply shelf, just barely visible through the haze. My phone is stuck under there. No way I’m reaching it now.
I close my eyes for half a second. My head drops back against the wall. My lungs feel like they’ve shrunk. My whole body trembles. Maya shifts beside me.
“You dropped your phone,” she says softly.
“I know, baby,” I cough. “I can’t get it.”
She’s quiet. Then asks, “Can I try?”
Every instinct in me screams no. I want to pull her to me and never let her out of my arms. But I can’t. We don’t have time for giving up. We need help.
“Stay low,” I whisper. “Crawl on your belly. Try to reach under the shelf. But only if you can do it quick.”
She nods and moves fast, flattening herself to the ground, arms outstretched, her little face set with focus I didn’t know such a small child could wear. My heart is pounding so loud I can barely hear anything else. She disappears behind the haze.
“Maya?” I call.
Then her voice cuts through. “Got it!”
She scurries back toward me, coughing, holding the phone tightly. “What do I do?”
“I need you to call 911,” I say, wincing as I shift to a half sit. “Tell them where we are. Tell them I’m hurt.”
She nods, lips trembling, and presses the emergency button. One ring. Two.
Then a voice. “911, what’s your emergency?”
“My name is Maya Garcia,” she says, her voice trembling. “I’m at Lake City Elementary School with my mommy. There’s a fire, and she’s hurt. We’re trapped in her classroom. Room twenty-four.”
The dispatcher’s tone is calm, steady. “Maya, you’re doing great. Is your mommy awake?”
“She’s awake, but her leg is really hurt and she can’t walk. The fire knocked something down and it hit her.”
“You’re being so brave. Can you tell me if the door is closed?”
“It’s kind of closed,” she says. “But smoke is still coming in.”
“You’re doing amazing, Maya. I’m sending help now. I’m going to stay on the phone with you, okay? Can you both stay low to the ground and try to breathe slowly?”
Maya nods and lowers the phone like she’s been trained her whole life for this. “She says to stay low. And breathe slowly.”
“You did perfect,” I whisper, tears burning hot as I pull her into my arms. “You were so brave, mi amor.”
She presses her face into my neck, still shaking, still holding the phone as the dispatcher’s voice continues to murmur on speaker. I wrap my arms around her and press my forehead to hers.
We’re not out of danger. Not yet. Not even close. But someone knows we’re here. And God, I’m hoping that might be enough.