Page 88 of Love Again

She’s screaming, twisting and trying to get away from him.

I have all my gear on. She doesn’t see it’s me. Mateus and I grab her and tear her from the front porch. We don’t stop until we’re a good twenty feet away.

She’s almost hysterical.

I left my mask and have to shout. “Laurel, stop, stop. It’s me. Look at me. It’s Luke. Where is he?”

Her tears are from the smoke. She’s too terrified right now to cry. She’s in shock. She keeps grabbing Mateus and looking at the cottage.

Mateus has been coughing too hard to answer. There’s a pause. “He’s up in the loft,” is all he says, and I’m off, running back to the cottage.

Mateus holds her arm and starts dragging her toward the trucks. An ambulance pulls up into the driveway as I hit the front doorway.

Smoke rises. A loft is not a safe place to be during a fire for that reason, and it’s already thick in here. There’s a river of smoke from the back of the cottage, and there are no flames yet in the front.

“Cory!” I yell. “It’s me, Luke. Don’t be afraid.”

There’s nothing in the smoke. No movement except the bulbous black clouds pouring from the back end of the cottage.

The ladder to the loft is at an angle, and I start to climb it, but it’s made for tiny feet and I don’t have much of a toe hold. I have to really grip with my arms.

I realize I’m breathing in too much smoke.

I turn the respirator on, and fresh oxygen hisses. Placing myself up over the rim, I see Cory, unmoving, and bile rises in the back of my throat. He could have already died. Most victims don’t die of burns. They perish from smoke inhalation. Especially children.

I scoot to him, crawling on my hands and knees while trying to keep as low as I can.

“Cory!”

And then, as if in a miracle, the blankets push away, and I can see his little hand reaching for me. Then he starts coughing. His eyes are closed, and his lips are blue.

There’s the sudden, acrid smell of wet wood and charcoal, and the steamy hiss of a stream on a direct line of fire.

White smoke belches, making it almost impossible to see Cory. Through the heavy haze, it’s clear he’s gagging. The air is no doubt laden with carbon monoxide.

Every training says the same thing: never take off your mask. Protect yourself first, your partner second, your victim third. If you don’t adhere to the order of operations, none of you make it out.

But this is Cory, and his eyes are starting to roll.

I flip off my helmet and take a deep breath before I lift the SCBA off. I press it to his little face and watch his lips push in and out as his chest rises.

Devon’s voice reaches me. “Luke!”

Fire has eaten its way into the hall.

“Up here!” I shout.

Her face is unrecognizable under her SCBA. No matter. I’ve got the little boy in my arms, the mask still on his face.

My lungs are burning.

Devon’s already halfway up the ladder and motioning for me to pass him off. The line is very short, and we don’t have a lot of room.

She removes my mask from his face and hands it back to me with a gloved hand. Cory is limp, and she carries him over her shoulder down the last four steps of the ladder. Strapping the SCBA back to my face, I search the space, but I can’t find the helmet. I don’t have time. I decide to descend. It’s a twelve-foot drop.

The smoke is thick, fire crackling. Men are shouting. Devon is out the door.

I’ve made it four steps down, and my foot slips. There’s not enough purchase on these rungs for my huge boots.