2. Ani
Ani
T he room smells like mildew and bleach. The carpet under my shoes is damp, though I don’t know where the water is coming from. The bed is lumpy. The curtains don’t close properly, and the bathroom light flickers when I turn it on.
It is unsanitary.
Still, it’s freedom.
And freedom, even when it smells like…this, is better than the life I left behind.
I bolt the door, check the window lock twice, drop my bag onto a rickety chair, and dig out a sweater. The room is freezing, and the thermostat doesn’t seem to work.
The mattress sags when I sit, groaning beneath me. I run a hand across the geometric print comforter and immediately regret it. The fabric is rough and stained.
This is not what I would have chosen if choice were a luxury I could afford. But I will happily take this horrible place over a life with Davit. A thousand times over.
I pull the extra blanket from the foot of the bed, shaking it out carefully before wrapping it around my shoulders. It smells mildewy, but I gather it tighter anyway.
I can hear the television playing in the room next door and what sounds like a couple arguing beyond that.
I check my phone, but there’s no service here.
So, I crawl into bed fully dressed, sweater sleeves pulled over my hands, legs curled in tight. I close my eyes and try to pretend I’m somewhere else. Somewhere safe.
I must fall asleep eventually because the next time I open my eyes, the room is darker than before and filled with something heavy.
It takes a moment for my mind to catch up, still sluggish with exhaustion. I inhale reflexively and gag. The air tastes metallic, coated in something bitter that sticks to the back of my throat.
Smoke.
The realization slices through the fog in my head.
I scramble upright, heart hammering against my ribs. The glow outside the window is an unnatural orange that pulses and flickers.
The motel is burning.
Panic claws at the edges of my mind, but I force myself to move. I stumble toward the door, and grab the handle but it’s so hot I immediately pull my hand away. The cheap wood of the door is already starting to warp, and a low, crackling sound grows louder with every passing second.
This is my only way out but I know what lies behind the door—a raging fire. The window in the bathroom is too small to fit through.
I bang my fist against the wood, coughing as smoke thickens around me.
"Help," I rasp, though my voice barely carries over the roar of the burning building. "Please?—"
The walls start closing in, the smoke stealing what little air is left. My eyes water uncontrollably. My lungs burn.
I am going to die here.
I finally found the courage to run and live life on my terms and I am going to die the first night, burned to death in a crappy motel.
The thought lodges in my chest, freezing me in place.
Then, a loud crack. The door jolts inward an inch, splinters bursting from the frame. Another impact follows, and this time it gives way completely, crashing open under the force of a broad-shouldered man in firefighting gear.
Hands grab me before I can react. Rough gloves scrape against my skin as I’m yanked into the hallway by strong arms.
Smoke curls thick along the ceiling. Alarms wail in every direction. Water sprays from a busted pipe near the stairwell.
I stumble, coughing so hard my vision blurs, but the firefighter keeps me upright. Another figure appears, then a third, both in the same heavy gear, faces masked and obscured by helmets.
They shout something I cannot hear over the chaos. I am half-carried, half-dragged through the motel.
The blast of cool air when we reach the parking lot hits me so hard I gasp, collapsing against the firefighter holding my arm. Someone else lifts me and carries me the rest of the way.
I blink against the floodlights and smoke, heart jackhammering against my ribs. Other motel guests mill around in small clusters, coughing, clutching one another, staring wide-eyed at the burning building.
I am outside. I am safe.
But my bag?—
I whirl around, searching frantically. My hands are empty. No wallet. No phone. No ID.
Panic seizes me again, sharper than before.
"My stuff," I croak, stumbling toward the motel. "My bag—my phone—it's all inside?—"
One of the firefighters steps into my path. He raises both hands, voice calm but firm. "You can’t go back in."
"I need it," I say, voice breaking. "Everything I have?—"
He shakes his head once, slow and deliberate. "It's not safe. You’re safe out here. That's what matters."
Safe. The word barely registers through the rising fog of panic.
Am I?
Because without that safety net, without my wallet, my phone, any proof of who I am, I will have to call my parents. They will bring me back. They will drag me into that ceremony. I’ll be forced to marry Davit. And I’ll be locked down even tighter than I was before.
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, willing the thoughts away, but they swarm faster than I can stop them. I can’t breathe. Is this smoke inhalation? Or am I having some kind of panic attack?
The firefighter who blocked my path steps closer. His voice cuts through the noise around us, low and steady. "The building is unstable. It’s not worth the risk."
I drop my hands and meet his eyes. His face is partially shadowed beneath the helmet, the edge of his jaw covered in a short, neat beard.
“I don’t have anywhere else to go. All my money, my ID, everything , is still in that room,” I blurt out, feeling the panic rise again.
"There aren't any other motels nearby," he says, softer now. "But we can get you somewhere safe for the night, okay? You won’t be stranded."
The thought of getting into a car with strangers knots my stomach almost as tightly as the idea of staying here.
Another man approaches from the side, his gear smudged with soot, a wide grin flashing through the grime. "Poor thing’s gonna freeze out here," he says easily, his tone carrying a warmth that wraps itself around my fraying nerves.
“She says she doesn’t have anywhere else to go. All her things burned up inside.”
They exchange a glance I can’t decipher before returning their attention to me.
“We’ve got room. Cabin’s not fancy, but it’s clean and safe."
The first firefighter—the one who pulled me out—gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. "We don’t even know her name," he says, voice low, wary.
"I don’t care if her name’s Cinderella," the grinning one says, throwing a thumb over his shoulder. "She’s not sleeping out here."
“It’s Ani,” I cough.
“Well it is very nice to meet you, Ani. If you’re uncomfortable staying with us, you can stay at the firehouse for the night.”
A third man joins them then, taller than the others and broader through the shoulders. His face is harder to read, carved from something colder, his mouth set in a tight line.
He studies me for a long, uncomfortable moment, then shifts his gaze to the others. "She’s not our responsibility," he says, voice clipped. "We don't know what she’s running from."
The man who first spoke meets his gaze evenly. "Doesn’t matter right now. She needs help."
For a moment, I think they are going to get into an argument. Finally, the tall one exhales, the sound harsh against the crackle of flames behind us. "One night," he says. "Until morning. Then we figure it out."
I clutch the blanket someone must have wrapped around me and nod, my throat is too tight to form words.
I wait there for what feels like hours, watching the firemen put out the fire completely. My mind keeps looping through what just happened and what’s going to happen next.
Finally, one of the men finds me and tips his head toward a truck parked along the edge of the lot, engine idling quietly. "Come on. It’s a long drive up the mountain."
I follow them numbly, legs stiff with cold and nerves.
One of them—the nicer one—climbs into the driver’s seat, whistling low under his breath as he adjusts the heater.
The steady one settles beside me in the back, offering a reassuring nod as I tug the blanket tighter.
The tall one drives behind us in another truck, his headlights a steady presence in the mirror.
The road stretches out ahead, winding through darkness that feels endless.
I don’t know these men, but so far they seem to be kinder than the men I left behind. That may not mean anything, but I’m clinging to it for now. I have no idea where they’re taking me, but it isn’t my parents’ home.
And for now, that will have to be enough.