LILA
Something off wakes me. The room's too still. I sit up with a jolt, and the first breath burns a little. It takes a heartbeat to know it isn't the dream that’s wrong—it’s the air. My hand catches the doorframe. My bare toes hit the runner. I don’t think. I run.
The hallway tastes like a gas station. The staircase gives me one long creak. Orange flickers across the wall at the landing, wrong and hungry. I clear the last three steps, round the corner, and find Matteo in the front room with his coat open and his shoulders set, stamping out a rag that burns like it wants to live. Each time he stamps the cloth, half ash, half fire, the flame flares back, spitting and clutching for air, refusing to die. Its edges curl in and out, torn pieces dropping to the floor like black petals.
Sweet and bitter smoke stays in my throat. The front window has a ragged hole the size of a dinner plate, glass teeth glittering across the sill and the mat. The rag stinks of gasoline. Flames lick and shrink at his heel.
“Back,” he snaps without looking at me. “Kitchen.”
I don’t argue. Not now. I’m already at the sink. I grab the heavy rubber mat we keep by the door, yank it free, soak it in the sink until it slaps heavy in my hands, and throw it. It lands square. He presses down, weight steady, jaw like stone. The flames gutter, spit, then die, leaving a smear of black and an ugly hiss. The next few moments pass in a blur. Towel, water, twist.
The alarm finally wakes and shrieks like a pot left too long on high. I jump, fling the back door wide, and hit the fan switch above the ovens. A curtain of cold pushes through the hallway. Smoke runs to meet it and thins.
“Upstairs,” he orders, eyes on the mat.
“Marco,” I breathe, already turning.
“Wet a towel for the door. Tell him to stay put. Count to thirty with him. Loudly.”
I run upstairs, a wet towel in my hand. My son’s room glows softly from the nightlight. He sits up, small hand rubbing his eye, face pale under the knit hat he insisted on sleeping in because he thinks snow’s beautiful and hats can be too.
“What’s that noise?” His voice lifts, tight.
“Burned rag,” I tell him, because lies are a bad habit. “It’s out. Matteo’s here.”
His eyes widen. “The big man?”
“The big man,” I confirm, dropping the towel along the floor by the frame and kneeling to his level. I cup his cheek. “We’re fine. Count with me.”
We count. He leans his forehead against mine and whispers numbers. The shriek fades to a stubborn beep, then quits. I hearfeet shuffle behind me, quick and uncertain. My mother stands in the doorway, robe tied, face soft with sleep, but her eyes are awake now, searching for an answer. They sweep over the faint trace of smoke curling near the ceiling.
“What happened?” she asks, voice low but edged.
“Burned rag,” I say. “It’s out.”
She looks past me toward the hall downstairs, then back. “Everything all right?”
“It is now.”
Her jaw sets. “I’ll stay with him. Go down. He’ll be waiting.”
I kiss Marco on his head and smell sleep, wool, and boy. “Stay in bed,” I tell him. “I’ll come right back.”
“Okay,” he whispers. “Mama?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I keep the hat?”
“You can keep the hat.”
When I come down, the cold from the open back door has cleared the worst of the smoke. The front room is dim and ugly in the dark, glass glittering across the mat like spilled sugar. Outside, snow drifts through the broken window in tiny flecks and lands on the ruined rag. The whole place smells like cinnamon, burnt butter, gasoline, and winter.
Matteo bends, picks up the edge of the mat with a folded towel, and carries it toward the utility sink. He runs water until the sizzle quits. He never looks away from the mess he’s killing. His sleeves are pushed to his forearms, and I see pale scars acrosshis knuckles and strong wrists—thick veins that look like rope pulled tight. My body needs a task it understands. I grip the broom. My hands shake, but not enough to drop it.
“Boots,” he says. “Stand clear.”
I shove my feet into my kitchen clogs and start sweeping glass toward a dustpan. The clink of shards is small and mean. Each piece gives up the edge it thought it could keep. I try not to think about what could have happened if that rag had landed three feet to the left on a stack of pastry boxes.
