Page 34 of Burn

She squeezes my hand and turns, rushing for the hall.

My stomach twists as I listen to her attempt to soothe Lola. Nothing she says is working, and the little girl wails into the phone. Knowing Lane, this is the longest she’s ever left her kids, and I can’t imagine how she feels unable to comfort her youngest.

When Dave and Lane return to the room, the mood is somber. Despite my insistence that they head home, Lane informs me they’re staying and will come up with a plan tomorrow. I settle into my bed, guilt amplifying as I watch Lanelean her head onto my bed, and Dave slink into the chair he’s slept in for the last couple of nights.

I dream for the second time since the fire. I dream so rarely, and this one pulls me back to the year I met Blake. After the day I followed her home from school, we became inseparable. It was us against the world, and when I changed schools after Mom’s break, I picked one as close to her as possible. Then, we convinced her mother to sign off on her joining me.

The dream is neither good nor bad. It just is. She and I in my first car, a shitty, old beater that we quickly blew out the speakers in from playing music way too loud. A nurse entering my room wakes me in the middle of my subconscious, revisiting Blake and me in an airport. We were barely eighteen when we flew to Costa Rica. We were so deliriously tired and convinced ourselves that the only thing that could sustain us was Sprite and Salt and Vinegar chips, unavailable in our layover airport.

“How are you feeling, Ms. Donnelly?” It’s the nurse from the day I woke up, Patricia. I smile seeing her.

“Good,” I reply. “I feel good.”

She snorts, laughing and shaking her head. “I somehow don’t believe you feel ‘good’, but maybe better?”

She’s right. My throat and chest still ache, and while I’m spitting less black sludge each time I cough, it’s still there. Still tastes like an old ashtray. I smile sheepishly and confirm, “Okay, not good, but I’m getting there.”

Patricia wraps a cuff around my arm, and as it inflates, she pulls up the sheet that prints out of one of the machines. She studies it intently until the cuff deflates. “Blood pressure looks good. Looks like some of your stats drop when you’re up, but overall, things look better.” She returns her attention to me. “Hopefully we’ll be able to get you outta here in the next few days.”

“Sounds good,” I mumble.

“Not excited?”

“Nowhere to go.”

She nods knowingly, and I scan the empty room.

“Any idea where my friends went?” I ask, suddenly very concerned, they went home without telling me.

“I saw them grabbing coffee downstairs ten minutes ago. Do you need something to eat?” she asks as she pulls a phone from her pocket.

I want to say no, I’ve had no appetite since arriving, but I know Lane will force me to eat anyway, so I request a muffin and a coffee. Patricia keys the request into her phone, and as she’s leaving, Dave and Lane return, carrying a tray of coffees and breakfast sandwiches.

It’s late evening when Dave and Lane decide that he’ll leave the next morning, and come back to collect Lane a few days later, once I’ve been released and organized somewhere to stay. Despite our efforts, we’ve been unable to find out any information on anything.

Lane called shelters near my condo to see if Mildred was turned in, but there’s no sign of her. Each call to the fire department went unanswered, and apparently, my missing cat isn’t a 911-worthy call. The news coverage has more or less stopped, replaced by a football scandal about a player accused of sexual assault.

When we again tuck in for another night of restless sleep, I’m feeling completely and utterly hopeless.

No apartment.

No Millie.

No Adrian.

Lane

Adrian

The clock on the wall over the nurses’ station reads 11:44 P.M. It’swaytoo late to visit her. The small bouquet in my hand suddenly smells rancid, like the flowers have already died. I bought them two days ago, but they sat on the counter slowly wilting, and now I realize I can’t give her this decaying bouquet. I step to the garbage bin next to the counter and drop them in with a thud. Without the flowers, my hands feel too empty, so I rub them together, working out the sore muscles—every muscle in my damn body aches.

After the fire, McCoy and I were transported to the hospital. He got the worst of it and will likely be off work for a while. Whatever, he’s alive. They’d kept me through the day, letting me leave around 2:00 P.M. the day of the fire. That was three days ago, and I’ve been unable to get here until now.I waited too long.I’m about to turn back the way I came when a nurse approaches the desk and says, “Visiting hours are over, sir.”

When I turn to face her, her eyes drop to my t-shirt and the department logo on the left side, and a smile spreads across her face. “Oh! Are you one of the firefighters from the high-rise fire last weekend?” Her cheeks flush, and she fidgets with her uniform and hair. This type of attention is common and typically welcomed, but today I feel like my skin doesn’t quite fit, and I rub my hand down the back of my head. When her gaze shifts to my bicep, I drop my arm and tuck my hands into my pockets.

My voice is still hoarse from the fire, which has made it lower and quieter. The nurse leans toward me when I say, “Yes,ma’am. I’m looking for Lex Donnelly.” I try my most charming smile, but my head is a mess, and I falter.

The nurse looks around, as if she wants to confirm we’re not being watched, and no one hears her breaking rules and then looks at the chart on the desk.

---