Page 12 of The Night We Became Strangers

Matías

A s I burst inside the Crónicas building, I realized some of the malcontents were already in there.

They were carrying typewriters, rolls of paper, and other valuables outside.

The man in the military uniform, who apparently was helping a woman get out of the building, was hit over the head with a typewriter.

What was wrong with these people? If I hadn’t been so consumed with panic and so desperate to find my father, I would’ve run behind the assailant and hit him with the typewriter, but the man quickly disappeared from my view.

From what I could see through the clouds of smoke, one of the linotypists was already helping the military man get up.

I needed to hurry if I was going to make it alive.

I’d been in this building several times, so I knew where my dad’s office was, assuming he was still there.

With a burning chest and watery eyes, I made my way through the smoke toward the staircase.

Two men were coming down. I’d seen them before—they were reporters.

“Hey, kid, don’t go up there! It’s dangerous!”

“Is Agustín Montero in here?” I managed to ask.

“I haven’t seen him,” one of them said.

“Get out of the building!” said the other.

The two of them rushed toward the front. I climbed the concrete stairs, coughing the entire way up. Halfway through the stairs—on the landing—I saw a female form in a two-piece suit, her legs partially exposed. She was lying down and apparently unconscious.

I leaned over her. I needed to see her face, so I moved her arm out of the way.

“?Mamá!” I yelled.

Her eyes were shut, her body awkwardly contorted.

I needed to get her out of here. I tried to lift her, but I wasn’t strong enough, so I hoisted her up from the underarms and dragged her down the stairs.

She was heavier than I’d anticipated, and the heat on my face was overwhelming, but I managed to get her to the first floor.

Once downstairs, I ran into one of the technicians in blue smocks.

“Help me, please!”

The man lifted her by the ankles, and we crossed the foyer toward the front door. She started fussing and coughing as we moved her. What a relief! I’d been terrified that she might be dead.

In the street, the mob was now letting the firefighters do their job, as if they’d finally come to their senses and realized what they had done. We carried my mom away from the crowd and found a clear spot on the ground. I placed my jacket underneath her head for support and knelt beside her.

“Your father,” she said, between coughs, “he’s still inside.”

I turned toward the burning building. It seemed enormous, insurmountable. The flames had spread to other areas since we came out. The two firefighters who were trying to fight them were not being too successful. How could I—barely a teenager—go back in there?