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We keep descending into plumes far thicker and darker than on the floors above, blowing through the elevator cage in choking drafts. When we reach the seventh floor, it’s clear that this is the source of the fire. The smoke here is sharper, stabbing the inside of my throat.
Through the smoke, I see firefighters coming and going along the seventh-floor hall with firehoses that have been carried up the steps so that they spiral around the elevator shaft like pythons.
Just when we’re about to move past the seventh floor, I hear something other than the elevator’s hum and the shrieking fire alarm and the clomp of firefighter boots on the stairs. It’s a sharp bark, followed by the skitter of claws on tile. A furry blur darts past the elevator.
I slam the emergency-stop button. The elevator comes to a quick, quivering halt as Greta gives me a fearful look.
“What are you doing?”
“There’s a dog,” I say, the words riding on the back of another cough. “I think it’s Rufus.”
The terrified part of my brain tells me to ignore him, that Rufus will be fine, that I should focus on getting us to safety. But then Rufus barks again, and the noise pierces my heart. He sounds almost as scared as I am. Which is why I pull open the grate. After that comes the thin-barred door, which is more stubborn than it looks. It takes both hands and an extra-hard tug to pry it open.
The elevator itself has stopped three feet below the landing, forcing me to pull myself up onto the seventh floor. I then crawl along the floor to evade the smoke—another of those things-to-do-in-a-fire facts I never thought I’d use.
While crawling, I cough out Rufus’s name, the sound lost in all the noise. I peer through the smoke, trying in vain to catch another glimpse of him. He’s so small and the smoke is so thick and my eyes are pouring tears. Through that watery haze, I see firefighters stomping into 7C, their voices muffled under helmets and face masks. Through the open apartment door comes a hot glow.
Flames.
Pulsing and bright and painting the hallway a hypnotic orange-yellow.
I climb to my feet, drawn to it. I’m no longer afraid. All I feel now is intense curiosity.
I take a step down the hall, coughing again as I go.
“Jules,” Greta calls from the elevator, “grab the dog and let’s get out of here.”
I ignore her and take another step. Although I suspect I have no choice at all in the matter. I’m being compelled.
I keep walking until there’s a noticeable warmth on my face. The heat of the flames caressing my skin.
I close my eyes against the smoke.
I take a breath, sucking it in until I start to cough. Rough, heaving ones that make my body convulse.
Dizzy from the smoke, I experience a jolting moment during which I have no idea where I am, why I’m here, what the fuck I was just doing. But then I hear a bark behind me and I whirl around, spotting a familiar shape hurtling through the smoke.
Rufus.
Panicked and lost.
Him and me both.
Blindly, I drop to the floor again and lurch forward before he can zip past me. I then pull him into my arms, Rufus barking and struggling and pawing my chest in agitation. Rather than crawl back to the elevator, I inch forward on my behind, scooting awkwardly until I reach it. Carefully, I drop the three feet back into the cage and, clutching Rufus in one hand, slam the grate shut with the other. Beside me, Greta shoots me a startled, fearful look before hitting the down button.
Lower we go, into the bottom half of the Bartholomew, the smoke getting lighter the farther we descend. By the time we reach the lobby, it’s been reduced to a light haze. That doesn’t stop me from coughing. Or wheezing when I’m not coughing.
Greta stays quiet, unwilling to look at me. God, she must think I’m insane. I’d think the same thing if I didn’t know the reasons behind my recklessness.
As we leave the elevator and make our way across the lobby, we encounter a trio of EMTs on their way into the building. With them is a stretcher, its wheeled legs folded. One of them looks my way, a question in her eyes.
I manage a nod. One that says,We’re okay.
They move on, heading up the stairs. We go in the other direction, following the hoses that stretch from the front door. Me and Greta and Rufus. All of us cradled together as we step outside to a street painted red by the siren lights of two fire trucks and an ambulance stopped at the curb. The block itself has been closed to traffic, allowing people, many of them members of the media, to gather in the middle of Central Park West.
As soon as we hit the sidewalk, reporters push forward.
Camera lights swing our way, blindingly bright.