Page 101 of Not For Keeps
“Stay low,” I whisper. “Crawl on your belly. Try to reach under the shelf. But only if you can do it quick.”
She nods and moves fast, flattening herself to the ground, arms outstretched, her little face set with focus I didn’t know such a small child could wear. My heart is pounding so loud I can barely hear anything else. She disappears behind the haze.
“Maya?” I call.
Then her voice cuts through. “Got it!”
She scurries back toward me, coughing, holding the phone tightly. “What do I do?”
“I need you to call 911,” I say, wincing as I shift to a half sit. “Tell them where we are. Tell them I’m hurt.”
She nods, lips trembling, and presses the emergency button. One ring. Two.
Then a voice. “911, what’s your emergency?”
“My name is Maya Garcia,” she says, her voice trembling. “I’m at Lake City Elementary School with my mommy. There’s a fire, and she’s hurt. We’re trapped in her classroom. Room twenty-four.”
The dispatcher’s tone is calm, steady. “Maya, you’re doing great. Is your mommy awake?”
“She’s awake, but her leg is really hurt and she can’t walk. The fire knocked something down and it hit her.”
“You’re being so brave. Can you tell me if the door is closed?”
“It’s kind of closed,” she says. “But smoke is still coming in.”
“You’re doing amazing, Maya. I’m sending help now. I’m going to stay on the phone with you, okay? Can you both stay low to the ground and try to breathe slowly?”
Maya nods and lowers the phone like she’s been trained her whole life for this. “She says to stay low. And breathe slowly.”
“You did perfect,” I whisper, tears burning hot as I pull her into my arms. “You were so brave, mi amor.”
She presses her face into my neck, still shaking, still holding the phone as the dispatcher’s voice continues to murmur on speaker. I wrap my arms around her and press my forehead to hers.
We’re not out of danger. Not yet. Not even close. But someone knows we’re here. And God, I’m hoping that might be enough.
Chapter Thirty-Two
MATEO
The smoke hasn’t let up.
It keeps pouring from the east side of the building like the school itself is exhaling its last breath. Every few seconds, there’s a new groan, a new crack, a new warning deep inside the structure that it’s only a matter of time before something gives.
We’ve managed to hold the fire back from the central corridor…barely. It’s a patchwork of soaked drywall and scorched tile, a barricade of desperate effort and luck that could fail at any second.
I swipe a hand across my brow, adjust my mask. The hallway ahead of us is warped with heat, air shimmering above the floor. It smells like burning paper, plastic, and glue…like a school turning to ash.
The structure’s groaning more now. Louder. Closer. Everything sounds strained, like the building is holding its breath for the final blow. One bad shift and this whole damn wing is coming down.
I bark directions to the crew—check the corner duct,reinforce the east pressure line. Everyone moves quickly, in perfect synchronicity. We all know the rhythm. Fire pushes, we push harder.
It’s chaos. But it’s controlled. We’ve got this. That’s all I think…until I see the look on the firefighter sprinting across the lot toward command. He’s young. Pale under the soot. Eyes wide, not just fear, but panic. And not the kind of panic that comes from smoke or flame. This is something else. Something bigger. Something worse.
He doesn’t even stop to catch his breath. “Captain…we’ve got a problem.”
Nathan doesn’t look up from the incident map he’s yelling into. His voice is clipped. “Yeah, I know. The building’s falling apart. We’ve got active flames in three corridors and a roof about to give.”
“No,” the guy blurts out, cutting him off. “It’s worse. Dispatch just called it in. A 911 call came from inside the building. A little girl. She said her mom’s hurt. She said they were decorating a classroom and got trapped.”
