My fingers hover over the trackpad as I navigate back to the browser. I spent fifteen years running from the specific details of that night, but the Polaroid hanging from my elevator framechanged the rules of the game. Someone has physical proof of my past, and they want me to remember.
I type the words into the search bar:Cross-Sterling Home for Displaced Children Fire 2011.
I hit enter. The search results populate in a vertical blur of archived news clips and legal PDF links. I click on a digitized front page from theHeathstead Gazette, dated November 14, 2011.
The headline is set in bold, blocky text:CHEMICAL INFERNO SWALLOWS CROSS-STERLING SHELTER.
I lean closer, reading the technical jargon that feels clinical and cold. My lips move as I follow the lines. “An accidental reaction between industrial-strength oven cleaner and a ruptured heating line triggered the initial blast. The sodium hydroxide mixture created a fast-moving chemical fire.”
It offers a clinical way to describe the night my world turned to ash. I remember that smell now—that acrid, throat-stinging scent. It didn’t smell like a typical fire. It smelled like when kids would burn things in science class. It burned like poison.
I dig deeper, navigating to the official fire marshal’s report. My vision blurs for a moment as I scroll past the blueprints of the building. I find the section titledCasualties and Relocations.My hands shake.
“Initial reports confirmed eight fatalities: two staff members and six children.”
I hold my breath, my lungs aching as if the smoke still lingers in the air. Six children. I close my eyes and try to picture the faces of the kids, but my brain only provides blurry images.
“Ten minor survivors successfully exited the structure prior to the roof collapse.”
Ten.
The number sticks in my head. Ten children made it out. I count the faces in my head from the Polaroid. Me, Reid,Dameon, Theo, and Micah. That makes five. Five of us stood in that yard together. If only ten survived, the odds of my specific group all surviving feel impossibly thin.
I open another tab, searching for the names of the survivors. I need a list. I need to know if the boys from my past are still alive. I need to know if one of them grew up into the monster who burns eyes out of photos and leaves threats in my foyer.
The legal archives of 2011 come up, and I navigate through the public record portals of county social services. I find the intake logs for the night of the fire, but my stomach drops as I see the black bars covering the entries. I stare at the disclaimer at the top of the page. “Due to the sensitive nature of the residents’ backgrounds and the ongoing litigation regarding the facility’s safety standards, the identities of the minors remain sealed under state privacy laws.”
I slam my palm against the mattress, a muffled thud that matches the frustration in my chest. I have the cause of the fire and the number of survivors, but the names remain locked away.
The silence of the penthouse suddenly feels deafening. I live in a fortress designed for “Omega safety,” yet the biggest threat to my sanity resides in a digital archive from a decade and a half ago. I think about the men in this building. Reed Harris, Sawyer Morgan, Ethan Emerson, and Urie Oliver.
Sawyer Morgan... he possesses a frame built for violence. I don’t remember a Sawyer from the shelter, but sixteen children lived there. I only ever loved the four boys who made me feel like family. But Sawyer... he fits the mold. Could he be one of the ten who got out before the roof collapsed?
The thought makes my skin crawl. I turn back to the screen and restart the search, widening the parameters to include every mention of Cross-Sterling in the last five years. I will unmask the survivors before they decide to step out of the shadows and finish what the fire started.
Bennet Cross and Rhett Sterling went on to found one of the largest corporations in the US, with dealings in everything from food to pseudoscience like cryogenics. They have recently taken an Omega, but it feels like everyone has just forgotten the children’s home they founded in their name burned down.
The clock on my taskbar ticks toward 4:30 AM as I continue to search and hit dead ends. I scour every corner of the accessible internet, but the wall remains immovable. Every official document concerning the survivors of Cross-Sterling features the same redacted lines. Black bars hide the names.
My head throbs with the effort of staring at the screen. The blue light seems to etch itself into my retinas, leaving ghost-images of redacted text floating in my vision. I rub my eyes, but the frustration only deepens. Reid, Dameon, Theo, and Micah. I have their childhood names, but I don’t have their last names. Not that I could pick out their profiles by their adult faces. Plus, people change their names in the foster system. They vanish into new lives.
Maybe the person sending these messages isn’t a survivor from my circle. Maybe it’s someone who wanted to be.
What makes them good enough for you?The question from the back of the photo carries the weight of a grudge, a bitter resentment that spans fifteen years.
I close the laptop lid partway. My eyes burn. I shift on the bed, the silence of the penthouse pressing in on me from all sides. The weighted blanket feels less like a comfort and more like a restraint.
A sudden memory hits me, more vivid than any dream.
The smoke’s everywhere. It’s thick, like burnt plastic and old wood. My palms stinging as I press them against the blistering floorboards, trying to keep my face in the half-inch of air that isn’t yet choked with soot. The hallway’s a tunnel of noise; the wood groans and snaps. I open my mouth to call for help, butthe heat hits the back of my throat, turning my scream into a dry, agonizing cough.
Then a door at the end of the hall kicks open.
A boy stands in the frame, backlit by the bright orange light behind him. He isn’t much older than me. I know him, even if my brain can’t place his face.
“Sunflower! Over here!”
It’s Reid. I reach out, my hands shaking, and he grabs me. His grip’s like iron as he pulls me toward the door. For a moment, my world dims, the smoke winning the fight for my lungs. But then the grip tightens. He doesn’t let me slip into the dark. He hoists me against his chest, his breathing a ragged rhythm against my ear.
