Page 11 of First Surrender

My only thought is to drop to my knees and crawl. A sane person would turn around and leave, but I’m not sane when it comes to my baby brother.

I drag my body across the carpet needing to get to the hallway. It’s one box. All of the important stuff is in one box in the hall closet but each breath in is like needles down my throat, stabbing my lungs.

The coughing starts and it doesn’t stop. I can’t keep myself from sucking in lungfuls of putrid air. Hundreds of tiny needles penetrate my throat and chest from the inside out, desperate for clean air. There is none.

I’m diving deeper into the hellscape instead of away from it, stubbornly guiding my way to the closet by memory because my eyes burn too badly to keep open.

I don’t see fire or feel the heat of it, I’m only drowning in smoke. Our apartment is tiny which means there is only one place it could be coming from. Dec’s room.

Poor Dec. He’s going to be so upset. All of his toys, his clothes. They’re going to be ruined. I don’t know if the tears streaming down my face are from the smoke or the guilt, but I don’t cry, ever. It has to be the smoke.

I’m within arm’s reach of the closet, my fingertips brush against the bottom lip of the door when I’m vaulted backward. My body slides against the dated shag carpet of the hallway as I’m tugged from behind by my ankles. “You have to get out!” A muffled voice shouts at me, dragging me back toward the living room.

“No!” I try to fight it but I am no match for the strength pulling me out of the hallway. I flip onto my back, kicking my legs out, and connect with a stiff firefighter’s uniform.

“Are you stupid, lady? The place is on fire!” The mumbled shout lashes out at me.

The coughing overtakes me again and I can’t respond, I can’t fight. He drags me far enough into the living room that he can manage to grab one of my arms and throw me over his shoulder like a rag doll.

Like every other terrible moment in my life, I’m helpless to do anything but suffer. Powerless to the forces acting against me.

I beat on his back until my palms go numb. He has no idea how important that box is. He has no idea how hard I’ve had to fight for my brother already and now it’s only going to be harder. I cough and wheeze, desperately wishing I had the lung capacity to scream.

This isn’t fair. None of it’s fair.

Chapter Seven

Jackson

“What in the hell were you thinking?” I direct my question at the blanket-wrapped woman that I’m furious with. I was almost home for the night when I got the call about a structure fire. I detoured here immediately in case the emergency crews needed backup.

Luckily the fire units responded quickly, working to subdue the fire in record time. The paramedics were blocking my view of the resident who dumbly went inside a burning building before I finally got a chance to see who it was. Natalie Halstead. The thorn in my side that wreaks havoc wherever she goes.

“Why are you here?” She removes her oxygen mask to speak, giving me a full view of her soot-stained face and hands, as well as the pissed-off glare that I’m becoming accustomed to.

“It’s my job to be on scene. It’s their job,” I indicate to the fire engines, “to go into burning buildings,” I snap. “What the fuck were you doing?” I shout louder than I intended and the outburst stuns me so badly that I practically stumble backward.

I never raise my voice.

Her eyes are round with just as much surprise, but when she removes the mask again, she’s leveling me with another sinister look. “Awh, is Sheriff Small Dick afraid that he was going to findme dead? Too bad for you, you can’t get rid of me that easy.” She rolls her eyes, righting the oxygen over her face.

“Nat.” I exhale, roughly. I don’t even know how to begin to explain that I don’t care how much she dislikes me. I wouldn’t want to see her get hurt. I’m not that type of person.

“Don’t call me that. No one calls me that,” she bites out her words through the plastic. Before I have a chance to tell her she messed up by telling me that, because now it’s a tool to annoy her, a little boy with yellow blonde hair pops around the doors to the ambulance.

“Look, sissy, they gave me a helmet.” He giggles. His genuineness is pure and dissipates all of the anger in the air. “Oh, hi,” he says shyly, noticing me for the first time.

“Hi, buddy. That is a cool helmet.” I crouch to his level to admire it with him. At nearly 6’4, I’ve had the issue of scaring children with my size.

“Yeah. I thought so. The firefighters saved my sister. She was trying to save our box.” He shrugs and I look at her. Her eyes stay averted but I notice her jaw is locked.

“What kind of box?” I ask the boy.

“Our memory box. Has all my papers. Pictures. My secret security card.”

“He means his social security card,” she adds from beside us.

“Oh. I see, so all the important stuff that makes you, you.”

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