Page 70 of Middle Ground

Once I’m shut inside the storage room, I slip my wireless earbuds in and decide to call my mother. It’s a small miracle that I haven’t heard from her yet today, but I count my blessings and press her contact. It’s not that I don’t love talking to my mother—I do. It’s just that every call rolls back around to my heart and her asking if I’m truly alright.

I somehow manage to placate her and steer her toward other topics. And when the call eventually disconnects, I register how hot it feels in the storage room. I tug my suit jacket off and drape it over a stack of empty crates.

I keep working, but soon the air in the room starts togrow thick, coating the inside of my throat. I begin to cough as warning bells start going off inside my brain. Something is wrong.

I abandon my clipboard and head toward the door. The smell of burnt plastic grows stronger the closer I get, and when I round a row of shelving, I see why. Fire.

A low wall of flames is blocking the way out, eating up every piece of cardboard and plastic in its path.

Panic flares in my chest, matching the growing flames. Not only because of the risk to the inn—the inn Meyer loves more than herself—but to all the people currently inside this building.

Shit.

I let myself panic for half a second, but then I force my brain to focus. I scan the wall until I find the fire alarm, and then I reach out and pull. Nothing happens. I try again, tugging hard on the switch. The little red box seems to mock me.

“Fuck,” I curse aloud, followed by another cough.

Right about now, the sprinklers in the ceiling should be kicking in, detecting the smoke that continues to rise. But they don’t. That thought worries me more, but I don’t have time to examine why they aren’t working.

I need to call 9-1-1, but I need to warn Meyer, too. If the fire alarm isn’t working in here, who knows if it’s working in the rest of the building.

I fumble with my phone, but I don’t make it very far before I hear a voice calling my name.

“Jackson?” Meyer says from the opposite side of the door. “Are you still in there?”

“Meyer, don’t?—”

“Son of a bitch,” she cries. “Why did the door handleburnme?”

“Don’t panic,” I call back, “but the storage room is kind of on fire.”

I manage to hear her sharp intake of breath. “What do you mean,kind of?”

“There’s a fire. The flames are in front of the door. And I don’t—” I swallow thickly. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to get out.”

There are no windows to speak of in this room. The only way out is through the door. The door currently blocked by a wall of heat that only grows the more time it has to soak up all the oxygen in the space.

“Pippa!” If you didn’t know Meyer well, you wouldn’t be able to detect the tinge of panic in her voice. But I can. “I need your help with something!”

I can’t hear what they’re saying, but the next moment, the fire alarm starts to ring out in the hallway. The sound is shrill, but it’s lessened by the crackling of the fire as it licks up more ground, and it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. Some of the weight on my chest releases, knowing that the guests and employees at least now have the chance to evacuate.

“Meyer?”

“Yeah?”

I clench my fists. “You need to go. The fire department should be here soon, so I’ll?—”

“Shutup,” she snaps. “Let me think!”

“Ialready told you that your safety isn’t something I’m willing to argue about. Getout, Meyer.”

“Fire extinguisher!” she yells instead, ignoring my requests. “There’s a fire extinguisher in the back right corner!”

“I’ll find it. Nowgo.”

Covering my mouth and nose with the sleeve of my shirt, I pick my way through boxes and shelves, doing my best to avoid the source of heat. The smoke is thick, making the space hazy. Finally, I spot the corner Meyer was talking about.

When I make it back to the door with the fire extinguisher in hand, the flames have reached one of the shelving units in the middle of the room. For half a second, I watch the cardboard boxes curl in on themselves as the fire incinerates them. Then I force myself to move.