Right. He jumps off the bed. Let’sgo.
She’s already scrambling for her clothes. They dress quickly, neither of them bothering with underwear. They are silent and businesslike. In no time they’re ready.
As they head out, she scoops her coat off the floor. He opens the door.
The hallway is low-lit, immaculate. As it was before.
Empty, as it was before.
And smoke free.
Of course it is. The place is run by a bunch of cretins who should be taken out back and shot, but there’s no danger. Still, they’re out of here. He takes her hand.
As they move down the hall muted bursts of static come at them from behind the doors of the rooms they pass. They reach the elevator bank, a dozen sets of doors on either side of a black marble expanse. In the center, a table topped with a vase of tall lilies. He hits the down button, just to check. The screen above each set of doors blinks two red dashes.
So be it. Now whereis—
There! Jenny points. StairwellA.
He pushes at the door, which barely budges. There’s a weight against it, like someone on the other side is pushing back. He puts his shoulder into it and heaves. The door opens and they practically tumble into the glaring white stairwell.
And the unmistakable tang of smoke.
Seven
Jesus fucking Christ.
There really is a fire.
A fire, in this building. An honest-to-God…
We’ll go slow, okay? he says. Hold the handrail.
Those boots of hers, those heels. Hot, but suboptimal. He starts down first. He hears the sound of feet, of voices echoing above and below them. A man is calling out somewhere, his words inaudible. So they weren’t the only fools who stayed put until now.
They reach a half landing, turn, head down another set of steps. He looks back at her. You okay?
I’m fine, she says. You can go faster.
They reach another landing, passing a door marked Forty-One. The smoke is mild, barely a haze. Not even as bad as the Canadian wildfires last summer. Now that was smoke.
From fires that were thousands of miles away, though. Not hundreds of feet. If that.
Another short flight, a turn, down down down. Fortieth floor. He’s a fool. Why this hotel? Why a whole night? Why did he insist, why…he glances back at her. She’s moving steadily, eyes on her feet. Is the smoke…no, it’s not thicker. Maybe it’s slightly thicker. Like bar smoke, back when you could smoke in bars.
They should have brought towels. He didn’t think this through. They have their clothes they can breathe through if it gets to that point.
But it won’t. It can’t. That woman at the front desk assured him, all but promised him.It was a false alarm. Nothing to worry about, sir. Absolutely nothing.Was she clueless, was she lying?
Doesn’t matter. He needs to think. Work through the possibilities. Because this could be a real problem.
Possibility one: they go downstairs and wait out whatever’s happening. Then they come back to the room, grab a few hours’ sleep, he heads to Houston in the morning, she heads home, they’re exhausted, more so even than usual, but their lives remain intact.
Thirty-ninth floor, turn, another flight.
Possibility two: they can’t get back in the room. Fire department regulations, safety checks, whatever. Does he still go to Houston? He could buy clothes when he gets there. Borrow Marty’s laptop for the deposition. But if he goes, and they find his bag in the room here—is their home number on his luggage tag? Fucking hell it might be. How does he explain that, if someone calls the house, saying they have his roller bag in a Manhattan hotel where he was never supposed to be? And what does he do with Jenny if they can’t get back in the room—shove her on a train, good luck showing up at home in the clothes you’re wearing and nothing more, not your bag, not even your fucking underwear?
Thirty-eighth floor.
