Page 70 of The Witch's Orchard
I squint through the smoke and dust and see the tiniest sliver of sunlight. I yank Tommy’s arm and lead him toward it, and just as I’m about to reach for the plywood, it flies open and there’s AJ.
“Annie!” he hollers, reaching for me.
BANG! BANG! BANG BANG BANG!
And everything goes dark.
TWENTY-FOUR
IAM FALLING. THROUGH DARKNESS.Through space.
I hear my name and open my eyes and see Jessica Hoyle reaching out for me, her little-girl hands raking the air between us as she tries to grasp mine. I reach toward her, but she slips through my fingers like vapor. I crash to the ground. The wind is knocked out of me in a bone-jarring thump.
I cough, my ribs aching.
I open my eyes. Fight my way back through the fog to reality.
I blink as the world comes into focus.
Taking stock, I find that I am sitting on the ground, propped against AJ’s cruiser. He’s holding an oxygen mask to my face while an EMT does something to my leg. The lower half of my right jeans leg has been cut away, and I groan inwardly. These were good jeans.
I try to find Honey but I can’t.
“Is Honey okay?” My voice is raspy, weak.
AJ laughs, nods.
“She’s parked on the other side of the cruiser,” he says. “She’s fine.”
“Oh, thank God.”
Another EMT brings me a silver-foil blanket, a bottle of water. I hold my hand out for it and AJ pulls the mask away long enough for me to drain half the bottle. The plastic crunches in my hand.
“Tommy?” I ask.
“We got him. He’s in the ambulance. Under arrest.”
“A meth lab?” I ask.
He nods.
I sigh, and the sigh turns into a cough. I manage to get another drink from the bottle, make the coughing stop.
“It’s a good thing you found that mask,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s too bad they didn’t. Oh! Elaine Hoyle. She was in there. And Dwight Hoyle. Did you find them?”
“Annie, you and Tommy are the only ones who came out.”
We look back toward the burning factory. Ugly black smoke rolls out of the wreckage and what’s left of the top floor is aflame. A fire engine stands nearby, tapped into a hydrant I’m surprised still works. They’re hosing the building down, but it doesn’t seem to be doing any good. I hear a shouted conversation about HAZMAT, about suits, about other firefighters coming in from another county, but all the words seem jumbled, far away.
The EMT gives my leg a gentle tap, and I look down, first at the bandage, then at the EMT’s hands, and then at her face. She’s a full-figured lady with rosy cheeks and a choppy gray pixie cut.
“You’re gonna live,” she says.
“But my jeans tragically could not be saved?”
I can barely hear my own voice over the ringing in my ears, and I begin to wonder if I actually said anything, especially since the EMT completely ignored my attempt at humor.
