Page 7 of Melting for the Firefighter

Then I carry Grandma’s flower journal to bed.

The cover is soft from thirty years of use. Her handwriting fills every page, looping around sketches, recipes, flower meanings, and notes written in whatever space she could find.

Water before sunrise during the summer.

Never crowd the roots.

Cora prefers the yellow roses, even when she claims she has outgrown them.

I trace my name in the faded ink.

Grandma had recorded a thousand small things about me.

Mom has never remembered my birthday without being reminded.

I place the journal beside my pillow and close my eyes.

The alarm jerks me awake.

Smoke curls across the ceiling.

For one confused heartbeat, I think it is fog.

Then the bitter smell of burned plastic fills my lungs.

Fire.

I grab my phone and call 911.

“Whispering Pines emergency dispatch. What is your location?”

I recognize Tessa Nguyen immediately. She buys yellow daisies every Monday because the dispatch room has no windows.

“Tessa.” My voice breaks. “It’s Cora. Grandma’s Garden is on fire.”

Her tone sharpens. “I have your address. Are you in the apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Stay low. Move to the rear exit. Crews are on the way.”

I drop to my hands and knees.

Smoke stings my eyes as I crawl toward the alley door. I grab the handle and pull.

The door opens two inches.

Then it jams in the warped frame.

I pull harder.

Nothing.

“It’s blocked.”

“Can you reach another exit?”

“Only through the shop.”