Chapter 16
Jamie
The emergency room was bright and loud and too full of people.
I sat on a bed behind a thin curtain with Rosie pressed against my side.
Somewhere nearby, a machine beeped. Voices overlapped, nurses called to each other.
A man down the hall coughed. Someone was crying in a room I couldn't see.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, washing everything in a flat, clinical white.
Rosie held the envelope of drawings against her chest. She hadn't let go of it since we got off the ambulance.
Her eyes were wide open, tracking every sound, every movement beyond the curtain.
When a door slammed somewhere down the hall, her whole body went rigid.
When footsteps passed by, her head snapped toward the sound.
I put my arm around her and pulled her closer. I should say something to comfort her, tell her everything was going to be okay, but I couldn't find the words.
"Miss Donovan?"
The curtain pulled back. A nurse stepped in with a chart in hand. She had kind eyes and dark hair that was pulled neatly back. Her face was familiar, but my brain was moving too slow to place it. I stared at her for a long moment, trying to make the connection.
She gave me a small, sad smile. "I'm not sure if you remember me. I came to your brother's funeral."
It clicked.
The woman Jack saved. She'd stood at the edge of the cemetery with her daughter and her nephew, waiting to pay her respects. She'd pressed her card into my hand and told me to call if I ever needed anything.
"Jenna," I said. My voice came out rough from the smoke.
"I'm so sorry this happened to you." She stepped closer and rested her hand on the bedrail. "I'm going to take care of you both, okay?"
I nodded. The relief of seeing a familiar face loosened something in my chest.
Jenna turned to Rosie first. "Hi, sweetheart. I'm Jenna. I'm going to make sure you're okay." She held up a small clip. "Can I put this on your finger? It doesn't hurt. It will tell me how your lungs are doing."
Rosie looked at me. I nodded. She held out her hand, and her eyes stayed fixed on Jenna, watching her every move.
Jenna ran through the rest of her checks—stethoscope, vitals, questions about coughing and chest tightness. She was gentle and unhurried, explaining each step before she did it. Then she did the same for me.
"We're going to keep you both overnight for observation," she said when she finished.
"Smoke inhalation can cause delayed symptoms, so we want to make sure you're okay before we send you home.
" She looked at Rosie, who was still sitting ramrod straight, clutching the envelope.
"Let me get a room ready so she can rest somewhere more comfortable. "
"Thank you," I managed.
Jenna squeezed my arm and slipped back through the curtain.
I sat there in the silence she left behind, trying to make sense of it.
Jack saved Jenna's life. And now Jenna was here, taking care of us. Taking care of his daughter.
The night kept coming back in pieces. The smoke that filled the room. The window that wouldn't open. Rosie's small body pressed against mine, her face buried in my chest. I'd thought that was the end.
And then Sam came through the door and carried us out.
I swore on my life. I will always protect you.
"Uncle Sam!"
Sam had changed into his station shirt. His hair was still damp at the edges. He must have showered and decontaminated as fast as protocol allowed and come straight here.
Rosie reached for him with both arms, and he crossed the space in two steps and pulled us both into a hug.
"I'm so glad you're okay." His voice was rough.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. My throat closed around the words, and my eyes burned with tears I couldn't shed.
But Rosie nodded against his chest.
"A nurse came," she said. Her voice was small but steady. "She put a clip on my finger." She held up her hand to show him, even though the pulse oximeter was gone now. "It didn't hurt. She said it tells her if I'm breathing okay."
Sam listened like this was the most important information he'd ever received.
"She listened to my breathing too," Rosie continued. "With the thing that goes in your ears. She said I was very brave."
"You are brave," Sam said. "The bravest."
Rosie looked up at him. "Are you staying?"
"I'm staying."
She nodded and pressed her face back into his chest.
"The room's ready." Jenna pulled the curtain back. She had a stack of folded fabric in her arms that looked like hospital clothes. "I brought these for both of you so you can get cleaned up."
I looked down at myself. My hands were covered in soot. The smell of smoke clung to our hair, our skin. I hadn't even thought about it until now.
"Thank you," I said.
Jenna led us down a hallway to a small private room. One bed, a chair by the window, a bathroom with a shower.
"Take your time," Jenna said, setting the clothes on the bed. "I'll check on you in a bit."
She left, and it was just the three of us.
Sam sat down in the chair. "Go ahead. I'll be right here."
I took Rosie into the bathroom and closed the door.
I turned on the water and helped her wash. The soot ran off her skin in dark rivulets, swirling down the drain. I scrubbed her hair, her face, her small hands, until she was clean again. I helped her into the hospital clothes that were too big on her.
"Go find Sam," I said. "I'll be out in a minute."
She was out the door before I finished the sentence.
I heard her feet on the floor, then Sam's voice low and warm. The bed creaked as he lifted her onto it.
I washed quickly. The water was warm, and I stood under it longer than I needed to, watching the gray runoff pool at my feet.
Everything we owned was in that house.
The thought landed and stayed. Rosie's toys. Her clothes. The photos on the walls. Jack's things, his uniform, his awards. Our parents' furniture. The kitchen where my mother made Sunday breakfast. The room my father built for me when I was seven.
Gone. All of it.
I turned off the water and pulled on the hospital clothes.
When I came out, Rosie was on the bed with her legs dangling over the edge.
Sam was crouched in front of her, listening to something she was telling him about the envelope of drawings.
She was gesturing with her hands, her face animated, the exhaustion temporarily forgotten.
She looked up when she saw me.
"Auntie Jamie, I was telling Uncle Sam about my pictures."
"I heard," I said.
Sam stood. His eyes moved over my face, checking.
"You okay?"
I nodded. I wasn't sure if it was true, but I nodded anyway.
Rosie yawned. A big one that scrunched up her whole face.
I walked over to the bed and sat down beside her. "You should sleep, sweetheart."
She didn't argue. That's how I knew how tired she was.
I helped her lie down and pulled the thin hospital blanket up to her chin. The envelope stayed clutched in her arms. I ran my fingers through her still-damp hair, smoothing it back from her forehead.
Her eyes grew heavy. Her breathing slowed.
I watched her sleep, and something in me unclenched. We were alive. She was alive. Thankfully I’d had the presence of mind to call 911.
"What happens now?" I whispered.
Sam leaned forward in the chair, elbows on his knees. "The fire marshal will investigate. Then insurance. There's paperwork—I can help you with that." He paused. "But don't think about it tonight. Tonight, you rest."
I looked at Rosie, asleep with her drawings clutched to her chest. Then back at Sam.
"Thank you," I said.
It wasn't enough. Two words for everything he'd done.
But it was what I had.
Sam settled back into the chair. I lay down beside Rosie, careful not to disturb her. The bed was narrow, the sheets were stiff, but Rosie was warm against my side and Sam was in the chair next to our bed, and for the first time since the smoke filled my lungs, I felt like I could breathe.
I closed my eyes.
They discharged us late the next morning.
Jenna caught us on the way out. "If you need anything," she said, "call me."
I nodded. "Thank you. For everything."
She squeezed my arm, then headed back down the hall.
"Ready to go?" Sam was carrying Rosie on his hip. She had Biscuit, the stuffed dog he'd bought her that morning, tucked under one arm and the envelope of drawings clutched in the other.
He'd slipped out of the hospital at dawn to buy us clothes so we wouldn't have to leave in hospital gowns.
For Rosie, leggings and a soft long-sleeved shirt in the dusty pink she loved, small sneakers with velcro straps.
For me, jeans, a flannel, a tank top, practical boots.
The kind I always wore. He hadn't just grabbed whatever was on the rack.
He'd grabbed what I would have grabbed for myself.
And everything was in my size. I didn't want to think about how he'd figured that out.
"Where do we go now?" Rosie's voice was small. "Our house is gone."
Sam shifted her on his hip so he could look at her face. "You're staying with me," he said. "Until we find a new house for you."
Rosie was quiet for a moment. Then she nodded. "Okay."
She pressed her face into his shoulder, Biscuit squished between them.
We went to the mall that afternoon to grab some essentials—toiletries, a few more changes of clothes, some things for Rosie. Sam insisted on getting me a phone—I’d dropped mine in yesterday's chaos—added to his plan so I wouldn't be cut off.
I tried to keep track of what I owed him. He told me to stop.
By late afternoon, we were standing in Sam's apartment.
I'd never been here before. It was small, just big enough for a bachelor living alone. One bedroom, a modest kitchen, a living room with a couch that had seen better days.
Sam used to live in the house across from ours. But when his father died, his mother had to sell to make ends meet. She passed not long after we graduated high school. Sam had been on his own ever since.
"You and Rosie take the bedroom," he said, setting down the shopping bags.
"Sam, we can't take your bed."
"I can't let you sleep on the couch."
I sighed. "Thank you, Sam."
"It's nothing."
It wasn't nothing. But I was too tired to argue.
"We'll move out as soon as we find a new place," I said. "I promise we won't be in your way for long."
Sam shook his head. "Stay as long as you need. I mean it."
The evening passed quietly. We made dinner together, nothing fancy, but it was warm and filling. Sam showed Rosie how to work the remote, and she sat cross-legged on the floor with Biscuit in her lap, watching cartoons while Sam and I cleaned up.
It felt strangely normal. Like we'd done this a hundred times before.
When Rosie started yawning, I carried her to the bedroom. Sam had already put fresh sheets on the bed and set out towels for us.
"Good night, Uncle Sam," Rosie mumbled.
"Good night, Rosie." He crouched down and kissed the top of her head. "Sleep tight."
He closed the door behind him.
I changed Rosie into her new pajamas and tucked her into bed, Biscuit wedged between us. She was asleep within minutes.
I lay in the dark taking in the scent of the sheets that smelled like him.
Stay as long as you need. I mean it.
But we couldn't stay at Sam's apartment forever. Eventually we'd have to find a new place and start over.
I stared at the ceiling and thought about the note I'd found on our doorstep the night of the fire.
Go back to New York.
I'd tucked it in my purse, which had burned to ash along with everything else.
Was the fire a directed attack? Or was it just the boys and their cigarette butts, finally causing the damage I'd always feared they would?