Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

The back half of the house is almost gone. Burn marks decorate the rest, as if the flames became fingers and caressed the home. From my spot here on the sidewalk I see directly into my room. Weirdly, it looks intact, but I know better than to try. The stairs are not safe enough for me to climb.

On the drive over I scoured the internet, reading about house fires. Between the extreme heat and the smoke, even minor fires leave more damage than you’d think.

There is nothing here but a ruined home. I should be crying, but the receding shock has returned. There is no other explanation for the feeling of numbness where anguish should be.

I still haven’t showered, and I’ve changed into Camryn’s clothes. Sweatpants, and an oversized sweatshirt. Being unshowered and in unfamiliar clothing only adds to this out of body experience.

Sabrina’s parents arrive at the same time as Sabrina. Her mother bursts from the car, running as if she herself can go back in time and put out the fire, or stop it from happening at all. When she sees me, she changes course and comes to me.

“Avery,” MaryAnn cries, taking my face in her hands. She is beside herself, her eyes wide, her face a mixture of shock and disbelief. I feel a pang of guilt for not having called my father yet, and a second feeling, far more uncomfortable than the first. Sabrina’s mother’s reaction makes me miss my own.

“Everything is ok,” I say, covering MaryAnn’s hands with mine. “Well, maybe not. But I’m ok.”

MaryAnn’s lips press together when she releases me. “What happened?”

Sabrina and her boyfriend Cross are here now, followed by Bill, Sabrina’s dad. Camryn hangs back, gaze going from me, to the house, and back again.

I do my best to explain it all to them, but I don’t know much either.

“What happened to the smoke alarm?” Bill asks, eyebrows drawn.

Sabrina shrinks away from the accusation in his tone. “It was beeping, so we took it down. I meant to get batteries, but I forgot.”

Bill tucks his hands in the pockets of his khakis and rocks back on his heels. He takes a deep breath, then two more before pulling out his phone. “I’m calling the insurance company,” he says, and steps away.

Sabrina and I walk around the house. She cries, and I stop to hug her.

“You must have been so scared,” she says, voice wavering.

I nod. “It was really awful.”

“I’ve thought about fires before.” She pulls back and wipes under her nose with the back of her hand. “Growing up, I imagined being home by myself and my house suddenly being on fire. I planned out what I was going to grab on my way out.” She sniffs. “What did you grab?”

I look up at the house, where my room sits half-exposed, and picture myself with my face pressed to the carpet. “There wasn’t a lot of time to save anything. The 9-1-1 operator instructed me to stay down. But I did crawl to my nightstand and take a photo of my mom.”

Sabrina considers this. “I would’ve grabbed my grandmother’s locket. Not my fancy red-bottomed shoes, or that expensive purse Cross gave me for Christmas. Isn’t it funny what we hold on to? That locket isn’t even real gold.” She looks wistfully at the room that was hers. It is next to mine, just a little closer to the back of the house. In terms of damage, it looks an awful lot like mine.

“You might find it,” I tell her. I don’t actually have much hope, but it seems like the right thing to say.

“Avery,” my sister calls. She’s coming my way with a petite, dark-haired woman I don’t recognize.

“This is Domenica Santiago. She’s a reporter for the Arizona Times.”

Domenica smiles wide and shakes my hand enthusiastically. “I came by to see what I’d heard about this morning in the newsroom, and saw you all here. Would it be ok to ask you a few questions?” I must be making a face, because she adds, “Not now, of course. When it’s convenient for you. I thought it might make for a good story.”

I’m not sure what about it all makes for a good story, and on a normal day I’d be irritated by the way she’s smiling in front of the wreckage of my home, but my exhaustion is creeping in and I’m too tired to care.

Cam gives Domenica my phone number and we agree to talk tomorrow to set up an interview.

She leaves, and we rejoin Sabrina’s parents. Her dad has hung up with insurance and is now talking with the fire investigator.

“Faulty wiring where?” he asks.

“Where?” MaryAnn whispers forcefully.

Bill turns away from her, frowning. “The security lamp near the back door? That’s impossible. I installed it myself.”

MaryAnn hurries around to face her husband, eyes lit up with fury. “I told you to hire an electrician,” she hisses, pointing an accusatory finger at his chest. He walks away, and she follows him.

“Ugh,” Sabrina groans, watching them. Her dad is waving her mom away, but MaryAnn is unfazed, continuing a steady stream of griping. “How can they be fighting right now, of all times?”

It seems to me right now is the perfect recipe for a fight. Frightened? Check. High stress? Check. Frazzled nerves? Check.

Sabrina shifts her attention to our charred home. “Did you get a chance to see the firefighter who saved you?”

“Everything was too chaotic.” I can see him in my mind’s eye, but his features are undefined. Between his large suit, his helmet and his face shield, he is only an outline of a man. “I’d like to thank him, but how can I find him? I don’t know his name.” It feels like an imbalance, to not know the name of the person who saved my life.

“I bet you could show up at the nearest fire station and ask around. I think firefighters have weird schedules, like they work a day and then have two off. If he’s not there, someone will know what you’re talking about.”

“What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if he just wants to do his job and move on?”

Sabrina shakes her head. “I think anybody in public service would love to be thanked for their contribution. Especially when it’s dangerous.”

“When you put it that way…” I nudge Sabrina. “I’m really sorry about all this. Your house. Your things.”

She stares at the misshapen mess in front of us. Homes bring feelings of safety and security. You lock your doors and you’re supposed to be safe inside your home. But what about when the danger originates inside?

“We don’t know the extent of it all yet.” Sabrina plasters a smile on her face. It’s too bright to be authentic, but I appreciate her positivity. “Besides”—she wraps an arm around my shoulders—“most of it is just stuff. It’s replaceable. You are not replaceable. And you’re here. Everything else is noise.”

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