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A dozen flashbulbs pop like firecrackers.
A reporter shouts a question that I can’t hear because the fire alarm has set my ears ringing.
Rufus, as irritated as I am, barks. This draws Marianne Duncan out of the milling crowd. She’s dressed like Norma Desmond. Flowing caftan, turban, cat’s-eye sunglasses. Her face is smeared with cold cream.
“Rufus?”
She rushes toward me and lifts Rufus from my arms.
“My baby! I was so worried about you.” To me, she says, “The alarm was going off and there was smoke and Rufus got spooked and jumped out of my arms. I wanted to look for him, but a fireman told me I had to keep moving.”
She’s started to cry. Streaks appear in the cold cream, plowed by tears.
“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you, thank you!”
I can only muster a nod. I’m too dazed by the sirens and theflashbulbs and the smoke that continues to roll like a storm cloud in my lungs.
I leave Greta with Marianne and gently push my way through the crowd. It’s easy to differentiate residents of the Bartholomew from the onlookers. They’re the ones in their nightclothes. I spot Dylan in just a pair of pajama bottoms and sneakers, looking impervious to the cold. Leslie Evelyn wears a black kimono, which swishes gracefully as she and Nick do a head count of residents.
When EMTs emerge with Mr. Leonard strapped to the stretcher and his face covered by an oxygen mask, the crowd breaks into applause. Upon hearing them, Mr. Leonard gives a weak thumbs-up.
By then I’m pulling away from the crowd, on the other side of Central Park West. I walk north a block, putting more distance between me and the Bartholomew. I drop onto a bench and sit with my back to the stone wall bordering Central Park.
I cough one last time.
Then I allow myself to weep.
NOW
Dr. Wagner looks surprised, and rightly so. His expression is similar to his voice—passivity masking alarm.
“Escaped?”
“That’s what I said.”
I don’t mean to be this standoffish. Dr. Wagner has done nothing wrong. But I’m not ready to trust anyone at the moment. A by-product of living at the Bartholomew for a few days.
“I want to talk to the police,” I say. “And Chloe.”
“Chloe?”
“My best friend.”
“We can call her,” Dr. Wagner says. “Do you have her number?”
“On my phone.”
“I’ll have Bernard look through your things and find the number.”
I let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you.”
“I’m curious,” the doctor says. “How long did you live at the Bartholomew?”
I like the doctor’s word choice. Past tense.
“Five days.”
“And you felt like you were in danger there?”