Page 103 of Irish Vice

An operator answers: “911. What’s your emergency?”

I tell her, trying to crush the panic where my heart should be. I give her the address. I tell her there are four of us in the house, because I pray to God Fairfax didn’t change plans, didn’t bring Aiofe back to the nursery. I tell the woman on the phone I don’t know where the fire started, how it started, how much of the house is in flames.

I wait for her to say the fire station already responded to a call at this address tonight. I’m ready to bargain. I’m ready to cry. But she merely confirms the destination and says help is on the way.

Braiden’s out of the bathroom. He’s carrying towels, the huge bath sheets he keeps by the shower. They’re so soaked with water they’re dripping onto the floor. He drapes one over my shoulders and drags me to the door.

“When I open it,” he says. “Run for the stairs.”

“I can’t?—”

“Don’t look back,” he says. “Don’t stop.”

“You’re coming with me,” I say, and I realize I’m pleading. I’d drop to my knees and beg, but I know it won’t do any good.

“There are eleven steps to the landing. Ten to the ground floor.”

“You need to?—”

“I need to get Birte and Grace.”

“You can’t?—”

“I need you to go.”

He won’t listen. He won’t stop. If I waste any more time arguing, I’m only putting him in greater danger.

He crowds me close to the door. He crushes his lips against mine, unbearably hard, unbearably fast. “Ready?” he asks. “On three.”

I nod because I can’t speak.

“One,” he says. “Two.”

Onthreehe opens the door and shoves me into the hallway. The walls are catching fire. They seem to waver, and paint bubbles up like water in a pot. Flames are eating their way into the ceiling.

With one hand, I clutch the towel over my head and race for the stairs. Past the guest room. Past Aiofe’s room.

Eleven steps to the landing.

Ten to the ground floor.

I shoot the deadbolt on the front door and yank it open. Staggering outside, I stumble halfway to the ruined garage on pure momentum.

Glass explodes in one of the upstairs windows. I can’t tell if it’s our bedroom or Aiofe’s, or even one of the offices in the other wing. I scream for Braiden, as if ripping my throat raw can carry him out of that hellhole.

I’m closer than I should be.

I’m farther than I ever wanted to go.

And I stare into the black pit of the doorway, waiting, hoping, praying to see the man I love.