Page 2 of Faking the Heat

Sterling surveys the scene: neighbors huddled under borrowed blankets, firefighters unspooling hoses and setting up floodlights, my apartment window two floors up, ominously dark.

“What about the rest of your menagerie?” he asks. “You got everyone out?”

“Unless you count my dwindling collection of succulents, that’s it. Some of us prefer low-maintenance companionship.”

He nods, accepts the verbal jab as his due, then gestures to the carrier and the half-open backpack dangling off my shoulder. “You have somewhere to go?”

This is a trick question, or at least it feels like one. Technically, I have options. Kayla would absolutely let me come to her place if she didn’t just move in with her boyfriend and they had an actual couch. Dana would make space for me in her micro-studio, if I promise to “vibe with” her boyfriend-of-the-week and ignore the ceiling mold. My parents live a little more than an hour away in Michigan City but spending more than four consecutive hours in their house… well let’s just say I’d rather sleep on the sidewalk.

“I’ll figure it out,” I say, channeling every ounce of my adult life skills into those four words.

Sterling does not look convinced. He’s never been able to leave a puzzle unfinished, or a stray pet unfed.

“I’m on shift for a couple more hours,” he says, nodding back at the engine. “But you can use the bunk room at the firehouse. Or, “ he hesitates, just a beat, “the spare room at my place. Your call.”

I’m about to protest, to say I don’t need charity but before I can answer, a thunderous noise erupts behind us: a wet, ugly *whump*, followed by a whoosh that sounds like the world sucking in breath. I turn in time to see the front windows on the entire second floor, my apartment windows, explode outward in a gushing sheet of fire.

For a second, I can’t process it. The flames crawl up the brick like angry orange vines, and the glass scatters across the street, raining down in a sparkling arc.

The crowd lurches backward. Bowie shrieks, and I nearly drop him. The news crew swivels their camera with predatory speed, catching every second.

Sterling’s reaction is instantaneous. He shoves me back, one hand on my shoulder, and covers us both as debris skitters across the asphalt. The explosion is over as fast as it started, leaving a sickly glow where my apartment used to be.

He glances back at me, his hand still anchored at the base of my neck. “You okay?”

I nod, or try to. I can’t stop staring at the flames. There’s nothing left, nothing to go back for. my books and art supplies and photos and memories all combusting into the stratosphere.

My brain is numb. I hear voices of the people around me, but it’s like their actual words fall on deaf ears. I am aware, distantly, that I am still sitting on a curb, my bare foot pressing into the gravel beneath it. Bowie is no longer screaming, just shivering, the plastic carrier rattling with every aftershock of fear. I want to call someone, anyone, but my phone is dead and my words are all burnt out.

Sterling reappears what seems like a lifetime later, ash streaked across his jaw and water darkening his jacket. He moves through the thinning crowd, quiet and methodical, the center of whatever universe is left to me.

He doesn’t ask if I’m okay. He just stands there, looking at the blacked, out windows and then at me, and I see in his eyes the answer to the trick question from earlier.

He kneels beside me, meeting my eyes. I brace for bad news, because that’s what’s left to come.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft enough that I almost don’t hear it over the distant traffic.

“Hey,” I echo, mouth thick. I want to say something clever, but every line I can think of tastes stale and desperate.

He sets his elbows on his thighs, steeples his hands, and for a second I see the weight of the day settle on his shoulders. “It’s gone,” he says after a moment. “The whole floor. I’m sorry.”

I look down at my hands, which are doing their nervous thing, fidgeting with the zipper of the carrier, tapping the corner of the sketchbook, then finding nothing and just wringing each other until the knuckles go white. “Yeah. I kind of figured.”

He nods, then sits with the silence until I can’t take it and start talking just to fill the void.

“I thought, you know, worst case, they’d let us go in and grab some stuff. Like, maybe my stuff’s not important in the cosmic scheme, but I’d at least like to have a toothbrush and maybe not wear cartoon avocado pajamas for the rest of my life.” I force a laugh, and it comes out raw, catching on the edges.

Sterling grins, tired and a little sad, but genuine. “You make pajamas look good. You could start a trend.”

I groan, drag my palms down my face. “Yeah, tragic evacuee chic. Very on-brand for me.”

He lets me sit in the self-pity for a minute, then nudges my knee with his own, gentle. “It’s just stuff, Mandy.”

I want to scream at him that it’s not just stuff, it’s everything, my life, my memories, but the truth is it’s not even that. It’s not the loss of things; it’s the loss of normal. The rituals: morning coffee in my chipped mug, stacking my pens by color, the soundtrack of Bowie’s claws skittering over hardwood while I scramble to meet deadlines. The absence is what unmoors me.

I clear my throat. “What about everyone else? The other tenants?”

“No one was hurt if that’s what you’re asking.” He shrugs. “Shelter’s set up a couple blocks over, but they’re pretty full. Some people have family. Some… don’t.” He looks at me then, really looks, and I know he’s thinking about my parents and how that is absolutely not an option, even if I could stand to listen to my mother’s I-told-you-so’s for more than ten minutes.