Page 39 of Lucky Night

Fine. If they can’t get back in the room he’ll postpone the depo. He won’t go to Houston, instead he’ll…what? Pretend to Caroline he’s in Texas when really he’s lurking in the city, waiting to collect his luggage, his possibly smoky suitcase?

This is a mess. A fucking mess.

Thirty-seventh floor. Their descent is twelve percent complete. Eleven point nine, specifically, good job, genius, too bad you didn’t use your big brain to predict that you might need something to breathe through, because it’s definitely smokier down here.

Jenny stumbles around the turn. He reaches back to steady her.

These stupid boots, she mutters. Keep going.

Half flight, turn, half flight. Thirty-six.In vain thou kindlest all thy smoky—no. No fucking poetry right now. Plus, that one is really not helpful. But then, none of what he’s doing is helpful. He’s catastrophizing. This is a nothing fire. No billows of smoke, no jets of flame spurting up the stairwell. They’ll have it cleared up in an hour. Fallout will be minor, and he can handle it. Offer some explanation to Caroline. Does she suspect already? At times he’s wondered. Thought maybe she suspects—and doesn’t particularly care.

As he rounds the landing on thirty-five he glimpses a man disappearing around the turn below them. A bent bald head, a hand on the banister. The stairwell is full of the sound of tramping feet. He has been careful. He is a good husband. Things were difficult for a while, true, he got dark, wrestling the black dog, but then he found Jenny. He’s a better man now. A better husband. Thirty-four.

Are you serious? Lauding your marital excellence while fleeing a burning hotel with your—whatever she is. They’ve avoided the words, always, the crass yet accurate designations. Girlfriend, lover, mistress. Shack job, fuck buddy. Criminal conversationalist.

The person whose very existence means you are not a good husband. At all.

Step step step. Down down down.

Thirty-three.

Jenny is coughing. They’re going to reek when they get out of here. Okay, so possibility one, amended: if they can get back in the room, they take a long, hot shower. Sorry, Natey, I need those cute soaps to clean your mom! Even better: they leave. Grab their shit and find another hotel. Start the night over with a bath. A fresh white bed.

Thirty-two. Nearly a third of the way now, just—

Stop!

He stops, and she crashes into him. He braces himself against the banister, keeping both of them upright.

I need you to stop!

There’s no one in sight. The voice is far away, echoing up to them. Leaning over the well, he sees only the backs of other heads, other people craning to see. Beyond, a gray haze.

Go back to your rooms. Now. Thisis—

There’s a distant sound of raised voices, argument.

No. No, ma’am. You should not—the other stairwells are restricted as well.

He feels Jenny’s hand on his shoulder.

You are interfering. We are working to contain this fire, and you are—

There’s a squawk. Then the voice booms, amplified.

Listen up, people! The stairwells are CLOSED. Return to your rooms. For your OWN SAFETY, do not, repeat, DO NOT attempt to evacuate the building at this time. Return to your rooms, continue to shelter in place with your doors CLOSED, and await further instructions.

Another squawk.

Then silence.

He turns to her. She’s on the step above him. For once they’re exactly the same height.

I’m going to keep going, he says. A little farther, to…no, Jenny. You stay here. I just want to check. I’ll come right back, I promise.

Down he goes, much faster without her to worry about. Oneflight, then another, and another, skipping the last few steps of each, grabbing the banister and swinging around the turns, the way he flew down the big staircase at his grandmother’s house when he was a boy.

He doesn’t make it far. After four or five flights the smoke is too thick, even when he breathes through his shirt.

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