Page 101 of Choke

I need to get to her.

I pull out my phone and redial her. Again, it rings out.

I open the cam app. She’s there.

Asleep. Oblivious.

I switch to the front door feed.

Smoke curls under the door, thick and black, and my lungs feel like they’re made of cement—as if I’m the one in that apartment.

She has no idea she’s about to run out of air.

Attention Residents

Lex

I open my eyes and register the smell of smoke and smile.

He’s here.

I remove my earplugs, and when I sit up, I hear the alarm blaring, registering a strange, metallic taste in my mouth.

What?

This isn’t right. It has to be a false alarm. My brain feels sluggish, like mud. I’m so confused, and I lower my feet to the floor, looking around. The air feels different. The building’s power is out; the only light comes from the emergency lighting system. I reach for my phone when the automated voice comes over the building intercom.

“Attention residents. A fire has been detected in the building. If you have not already evacuated, please shelter in place. Stay inside your unit, close doors, and seal gaps with wet towels or tape to prevent smoke entry. Fire crews are on site. Await further instructions.”

I look at my phone and have three missed calls from a number I don’t recognize. My head spins and throbs. I stand, and my body sways as if I’m on a boat in the middle of the ocean, feeling light-headed. I open my bedroom door and see the black smoke. At the same time, my phone rings again—that number. I swipe to answer it.

“Hello?”

I’m so confused.

“Lex, are you outside?” the voice is insistent and low.

“Who is this?”

“Lex—are you outside of the building?”

Warmth rushes me.

“Adrian?”

He’s calling.That’s nice.

“Lex!”

“There’s smoke. I think there’s a fire. My head hurts.”

I press my hand to my forehead and stumble, dropping my phone to the floor.

Millie. Where is Millie?

I pull the carrier out from under the bed, then locate her curled under the blankets. She protests when I lift her into the carrier and seal it. I tug on some yoga pants, and the first cough rips through me. My lungs burn. I pull a sweatshirt over my head and drape my arm across my nose and mouth, moving toward my door. The automated voice repeats its message, but my brain is too foggy to understand.

The voice drones on, tinny and distant.

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