I force myself to my hands and knees, but stars erupt behind my eyes and the room spins. Then I smell it.
Smoke.
Panic fires under my skin.
What is burning?
Russel was telling me that awful story, and then the lights went out. Something happened. There was someone in my house. Russel knew. He tried to warn me. I turned away, but… Stacy. Coming forme. Did she hit me? Where is she now? Where is Russel? What happened?
A trail of black smoke rises past my bedroom window.
Another wave of panic flashes through me so fast, the pain in my head turns searing, like someone is stabbing the inside of my skull with hot knives.
Is my house on fire?
I try to refocus on how I’m going to get out of here, but thinking only makes my brain bounce around in my too-tight skull.
As a flight attendant, I am trained in emergency response. There are protocols. Rules. A plan. But this is not a plane fallingout of the sky or a medical emergency onboard a flight or even a terrified passenger having a panic attack.
My phone. I need to call for help. I reach for it, but my pockets are empty.
Think! Where did I leave my phone?
Hot panic shoots down my spine, straight to the arches of my feet, making me want to run. But there is nowhere to run.
With my head pounding, I crawl to my bedroom door, then I remember just in time not to reach for the knob because if there’s a fire out there, the metal knob might burn me.
Though if my house is on fire, burning my hand seems like the least of my problems. The only way out of here is through that door. Smoke is filtering in through the crack at the bottom, burning my throat and eyes.
“Russel!” I call out. “Stacy? Are you here?” The effort to scream with the smoke filling the air makes my throat spasm shut. My eyes are starting to sting and there’s snot dripping down my nose.
I crawl back to my dresser and grab a t-shirt to cover my mouth, then I knee-walk back to the door. Then I remember. My phone is on the counter—I turned on a playlist, and then I was texting Linden about ice cream.
Linden.
Outside my room comes a loudwhoomphfollowed by a crash. Glass shatters from somewhere downstairs. Is someone breaking in to come for me?
“Help!” I call out. “I’m up here!”
More smoke puffs in from beneath my door and rises up to my ceiling where it’s trapped, but the space is filling up.
I have to get out of here.
I touch the back of my hand to my door. It’s warm, but is it hot? If I open the door, what am I going to see? Am I already trapped? I need help.
I have to open the door. If there are flames, I’ll just close it again. Unless the hot hair kills me first.
Grabbing another t-shirt, I wrap it around the doorknob and twist. With a gulp of air through the t-shirt covering my mouth, I push. But the door doesn’t move.
What the hell?
I twist again and shove. Something is blocking the door.No, no, no! I push with all my might to get it open, but something’s wedged against it.
Another crash outside my door. Thethudvibrates through my bones. Glass explodes. From the heat? Or is someone here?
“Hello?” I scream over the roar of the fire, pounding on the door. “Help me! Please! I’m trapped. I’m up here!”
The crackling is louder now, like the fire is getting closer. Like it’s hungry. Angry. Is my entire house engulfed in flames? How did this happen?
