I grab my phone from the nightstand. The screen lights up through the haze, faint and flickering.
4:02 a.m.
Of course it’s four in the goddamn morning.
My fingers are slick, trembling, and I mess up the passcode twice before it finally unlocks. I hit the phone icon and try to dial 911, but I hit the wrong numbers.
I try again. My breathing’s ragged.
Come on, come on.
I finally hit call and press it to my ear as I stumble to the bedroom door. The smoke’s thicker now, curling around me like something alive.
I press the back of my hand to the doorknob.
It’s not hot.
Wait.
The thought hits me like a bolt through the smoke.
Damian.
Is he here?
Was he in bed?
I spin around, heart pounding, and stumble back to the mattress, patting the blankets like I’ll find him curled inside them if I just reach fast enough. But it’s empty.
He didn’t come back.
He never texted. Never called.
I stand there for one second too long, coughing so hard it doubles me over. My lungs scream. My eyes won’t stop watering.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the dispatcher asks, calm and detached like she’s not on the other end of someone’s nightmare.
I cough hard into the phone, the sound ragged and tearing through my throat. I try to speak, but nothing comes out at first—just air and panic and more coughing.
“Ma’am? Can you tell me what’s happening?”
“I—” I choke out. “There’s… smoke. Fire. I can’t see.”
My voice cracks. I bend over, hacking again, trying to breathe through the makeshift mask of my hoodie.
“What’s your address?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, focus hard, and finally manage to say it. Street. Apartment number. Floor.
The dispatcher repeats it back. “Okay, we’ve dispatched a unit. Stay on the line if you can.”
“Hurry,” I rasp. “Please.”
I don’t wait for a response. I tuck the phone against my chest, wrap my arms around it, and force myself back to the door, taking the hoodie and wrapping it around my head, tying the sleeves tight across my face until it covers both my mouth and nose. I don’t know if it’ll help. Probably won’t. But it’s something.
I can barely see. My chest is a furnace. Every breath feels like I’m swallowing broken glass.
I reach for the knob again, twist it, and throw the door open.
