Page 103 of Not For Keeps
I crouch low, sweeping my flashlight side to side, heart slamming in my chest like it’s trying to break free.
Eighteen. Twenty. Twenty-two. My gut twists. They have to be here. They have to be. A loud crack echoes above—woodsplintering. I duck instinctively as debris rains down from a collapsing air vent.
I keep moving. Smoke curls in every direction, coiling, taunting me like it wants to take something from me. But it won’t. Not today. Because Maya called for help. And no one—nothing—is getting to her before I do.
Chapter Thirty-Three
ANALYSE
The room is a furnace.
Heat presses in from all sides, thick and unrelenting, a living thing that gnaws at every inch of exposed skin. My clothes cling to me, soaked in sweat, ash, and fear. It’s like the walls are moving inward, each breath tighter than the last. My skin feels too tight, like it’s shrinking against my bones. Every inhale tastes like scorched wood and melted plastic. My lungs scream.
I’m slumped against the wall, barely upright, one hand braced against the warped tile floor. My other hand clutches Maya’s. It’s the only anchor I have left. The only thing tethering me to now, to here, to the reason I can’t fall apart.
Her tiny fingers are sticky with sweat and soot, trembling in mine, but she hasn’t let go. Not once.
“Mami,” she whispers, her voice paper thin, crackling. “Why isn’t the fire truck here yet?”
I force my eyes open. They burn, dry and raw, like they’ve been scrubbed with sandpaper. My vision blurs at the edges, but Ifind her face.
“They’re coming,” I rasp. My throat feels torn. “I promise, baby. Help is coming.”
She nods, even though I can see the fear tightening every part of her little face. She’s trying so hard. Trying to be brave for me.
Her shirt is pulled over her nose, just like I told her. I guide her hand back to the damp cloth I ripped from the bulletin board earlier, some faded decoration with a turkey on it, now barely more than a wet rag.
“Put this over your mouth again,” I say gently. “Like we practiced. Breathe through your nose. Slow. Like little sips.”
She obeys without question. Because she trusts me. God, that trust. That’s the part that undoes me. Please, please, please, don’t let her trust in me be wrong. Don’t let me fail her.
The bookshelf I shoved in front of the door, my last ditch attempt to block the worst of the smoke, has started to blacken. Thin tongues of flame lick up the sides. It’s turning into a torch.
I press my back harder into the wall, leg shrieking in protest. The pain is sharper now, deeper, pulsing with every beat of my heart. I can feel the blood soaking into my jeans, thick, sticky, and far too warm. When I try to move it, something shifts wrong. A grinding sensation, deep and nauseating. Something’s not where it should be.
But I can’t afford to focus on that.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I should’ve told someone we were coming. I just thought…it would be quick. I didn’t think?—”
Maya’s hand tightens around mine. “You didn’t know, Mami. You didn’t do anything bad.”
Tears sting my eyes, but they don’t fall. They just sit there, burning uselessly as smoke curls through the air like a curse.
The window in the far corner cracks with asharp pop, a spiderweb of fractures splitting the glass. Maya jumps, the cloth falling from her face for just a second. I reach out and tuck it back up.
“Stay down,” I say. “You keep that cloth on your face, and you don’t move unless I tell you. Okay?”
She nods again, this time harder, like she’s working hard on convincing herself too.
The air is thick, now, too thick. It’s like breathing molasses. I have to concentrate on each inhale, each exhale. Slow breaths, Lyse. My chest burns, my lungs wheeze. My ears ring, and the edges of the room begin to blur.
I shake my head, trying to stay conscious. I can’t fall asleep. I can’t. Maya needs me.
Maya scoots closer, resting her head against my shoulder. Her little arms wrap around mine. Her small body trembles against mine, but she doesn’t cry this time.
“It’s okay, Mami,” she whispers, her voice softer than breath. “You don’t have to talk. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for them.”
I want to tell her how proud I am. How she’s braver than I’ve ever been. My throat won’t work. Time stretches, thick and endless. The bookshelf catches fully, flames crawling up the spine like they’ve been waiting for the chance. The room glows orange, flickering like a candle at the end of its wick.
