Then I see it.
The front door.
On my right is the living room, but there’s no sign of any fire.
But on my left…
What I see freezes me on the spot.
The stove is on fire, and not just a little bit. Roaring flames lick up the back of the stove, and I stare at it, terrified that it’s seconds away from exploding and a chunk of metal will rip into me. I had crackers and peanut butter for my dinner, yet a pan sits on the stove, its contents aflame.
Can a stove blow up? Isn’t that something I should know?
The flames spark, and I flinch, covering my face and turning away.
Panicked, I lurch toward the front door, trip over something, crashing face-first to the floor. Without my sleeve over my mouth and nose, the smoke flows into my lungs, choking me. On my back, I cough and cough, struggle to get up but can’t find the strength to move.
I’m going to die in here.
Derek didn’t come back to drag me to Oregon; he came here to kill me.
Bang. Bang.
Whatisthat pounding?
Am I falling through the floor?
Is the ceiling collapsing?
Thud.
Thud.
CRACK!
I flinch, cowering away from the sound, so terrified I can’t move.
“Maisie!”
His voice slices through the smoke.
Iknowthat voice.
Knowhim.
Wyatt?
Blinking eyes open that I had no awareness of closing, I tilt my head to the side. I blink, and when I see nothing through the smoke, I blink again.
I can almost taste fresh air.
Not quite, but almost.
“Maisie?” Wyatt steps into view, and before I can tell him where I am, he’s already dropping to his knees beside me. He’s holding the front of his shirt up over his mouth and nose, the cotton shielding his airways from the thick smoke.
I start to ask what he’s doing here, inhale more smoke, and explode in a coughing fit that blinds me again as hot tears stream from both eyes.
He drops the t-shirt from his mouth to scoop me off the floor, cradling me against a rock-hard chest. Close up, I see more than just fear in his eyes. Terror and relief battle with each other, and the moment I’m in his arms, relief wins.
