Red Nights - Shari J. Ryan Page 0,1

yelling into his radio: “Young male. Severe burns—most likely third degree. Unconscious.” Blake? He isn’t home. What are they talking about?

A light flashes into my right eye, then my left. Another man is asking how many people were in the house. I’m staring through him, forcing out the words, “Just me…I thought.” I’m not sure if he heard me, but I don’t care.

Blake?

The roof is caving in now, and the windows are all blown out. I look around, as far as my eyes can see. Neighbors surround me. They’re in their nighttime clothes; some are holding flashlights, while others are just holding each other. Most have a hand cupped over their mouths.

In unison, their focus shifts from me to the house. I look to see what they’re all gasping about, and I see firemen emerge through the cloud of smoke billowing from the front door, carrying a body. No. No. No. He was home.

Blake!

I tug at the oxygen mask, pulling it away from my mouth. “Blake!” I cough out. The sound is garbled and I’m not sure anyone can understand me. I hardly recognize my own voice.

The mask is forced back over my face.

“We got him out,” one of the men says. There’s a ringing behind each of his words. They carried him out like a limp rag. But they carried me out that way, too. Time feels frozen around me as tears bubble in the corners of my eyes.

Someone helps me lie back on the stretcher as I’m carted into the ambulance. I’ve never been inside of one before. It looks like a tiny hospital room. Everything is white and clean with drawers and cabinets lining the perimeter. A door slams. The sound is clear and crisp—and overwhelmingly loud—causing me to flinch.

“You’re going to be okay,” an older man in uniform says.

I try to speak through the mask. “Blake. What about Blake?” I’m unsure if they can understand my muffled words.

“Just relax,” the man says.

* * *

My house is twenty miles from the hospital, but somehow it felt like seconds between the time we left and the time we arrived in front of the emergency sliding doors. The hallway is a blur as we rush through. When is someone going to tell me what’s going on with Blake? I want to get this mask off of my face. I reach for it, pulling at it, but someone stronger than me holds it in place.

My clothes are cut from my body. But why? Nothing hurts.

“Can you tell us your name?” a doctor asks, finally removing the oxygen mask.

I look at each person hovering over my nearly-naked body. Everyone looks concerned. I wish someone would smile at me, give me an inkling of hope that everything is going to be okay. “Felicity Stone,” I manage to whisper.

“Felicity, do you have someone we can call?”

My parents. They have no idea what’s going on right now.

“I don’t know my parents’ numbers,” I say. I never memorized their cell phone numbers, and they changed the house number a few months ago when they moved. I always put everything in my phone. My phone. “My phone was in my pocket.” I point to the bag they dumped my torn clothes into. A nurse fishes through the pile and pulls it out. She tries to power it on, holding her finger over the button for several seconds before shaking her head.

“It’s not turning on.” She places the phone down on a table and turns for the door. “I’ll go see about locating them.”

Another nurse tries to place the oxygen mask back over my mouth, but I press my hand up against her arm. “Blake,” I try to shout. “Is he okay? I need to know if my brother is okay.” After each word, my voice squeals like a deflated balloon. Every person surrounding me gives me this blank look, making me feel like I’m behind some kind of two-way mirror. Like I can see them, but they can’t see me. I want to bang on the glass, let them know I’m right in front of them so they’ll tell me what’s happening. But they’re probably trained not to react.

They all must be great poker players.

The silence grows. It’s deafening. And now it’s being drowned out by the monitor and my climbing heart beat. “Please,” I cry out from below the oxygen mask. I’ve been holding it together for…I don’t know how long…I have no idea how much time has passed since the fire started. I can’t