When I burst onto the sidewalk, the February air hit me like a slap. I stood there shivering in my thin cotton pajamas, watching flames lick out of my fourth floor window. Unit 4B, my home.
A firefighter approached me, his face grim beneath his helmet.
Ma’am, are you the resident?
I nodded, couldn’t speak.
I’m sorry, he didn’t look away. Everything in that unit is gone.
Gone.
The word didn’t make sense. Seven years of my life were in that apartment. Photos of my grandparents, the only ones I had. The guitar my late stepfather had given me when I was 16. My college diploma. My laptop with every project, every memory, every piece of who I’d become since leaving home.
All of it. Smoke and ash.
I sank onto the curb, still clutching my phone. The screen showed 3:47 a.m. Around me, neighbors gathered in robes and slippers, murmuring. Someone draped a blanket over my shoulders. I don’t remember who.
My hands shook as I pulled up my contacts. Mom, dad. They would know what to do. They would come.
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