Page 91 of Lucky Night

Fucking hell, the fucking line…

He taps the little button. Yes, it’s dead.

Okay, but they still have lights. The television is working. They just don’t have a landline. So what? Landlines are obsolete. Fuck it, they don’t needit.

Jenny, I need to get my phone. I’ll pull the duvet over you, it’s nice and heavy, it’ll…let me go, honey. I can see my phone on the floor over there. I’ll just go and grab it. You can watch me the whole time, okay? Watch me go and come right back. Here I go. I’m standing up. I’m walking…

He thought Jill was dead when they pulled her out, putty-colored and still, the cord twisted around her neck. His face was right next to Caroline’s, he was narrating to her, until he saw what the blue sheet protected her from seeing, a dead gray baby, and he faltered, and his life fell to pieces for three or four sickening seconds, until the doctor plucked the cord away and gave the dead baby a tremendous whack on the ass, and it started screaming, because it was fine, the baby was alive, like he is, like Jenny is, too.

Everybody’s alive. Nobody’s dying tonight.

He comes right back with his phone. The room feels steady. Not swaying or…what does a building feel like when it’s about to fall down? Not this solid, surely. Buildings sway in bad weather all the time. He was in Chicago once for a deposition, high up in a skyscraper. He glanced away from the witness at one point and noticed the window blinds were moving from side to side. Happens all the time, opposing counsel told him.

Modern architecture is a miracle. High-rises are engineered to withstand astonishing amounts of stress. Built by brilliant humans, performing endless calculations to assure structural integrity under all sorts of conditions.

He dials the fire department number.

He gets a busy signal.

He tries 911. Same thing.

At least the storm seems to be passing, Jennywise. She’s sittingup, wedged against the nightstand. She’s not shaking anymore. Poor girl. He gathers her and eases her onto the bed—always trying to drag the poor woman into bed—where she flattens herself against the headboard.

Her charging cord is dangling across the nightstand. He connects his phone to it. Just in case.

Now then. They need information. NY1 has become useless. He finds the remote on the floor at the foot of the bed and starts flipping.

He stops at CNN.

WATCH LIVE: Catastrophic Fire Rages at Manhattan High-Rise.

So they’re national news.

She said it was becoming a big story, but she’d been checking the internet. Celebrity hangnails are a big story on the internet. He didn’t think…that is, he didn’t fully grasp…

CNN. Christ.

He glances at her. Maybe he can change the channel before she—

Leave it on. Her voice is low and ragged.

…on what we believe is the twenty-fifth floor, the twenty-fifth floor of the building, a significant escalation of a fire that was thought to be nearly contained. Glass from the windows rained down on the street—we’re getting reports of multiple casualties…

He dials the fire department number.

Still busy.

We’re receiving word—and I would caution viewers that this is speculation at this point, we do not have confirmation—we’re getting word that the twenty-fifth floor is an open space of some kind, possibly an event space.

CNN is showing a different view of the building than the one they’ve gotten used to, its crew having opted, wisely as it turns out, to position themselves farther down the block.

The camera pans toward the sky.

Midway up the building, an entire floor is spewing orange flames.

Oh God, she whispers. Oh God oh God.

He puts an arm around her and holds her close. The reporter, a young guy with red cheeks and too-short CNN hair, looks stressed out. In the background, sirens are blaring.

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