Page 97 of Lucky Night

She cycles back to CNN.

…has not officially disclosed whether any first responders have been killed, but a source tells us that a crew of firefighters, dispatched to evacuate guests on the upper floors, is believed to have been near the twenty-fifth floor at the time of the explosion, approximately one forty-five a.m.

Dead firemen. Possibly dead firemen. That’s…hoo, that’s not great. She takes a swig of champagne. Does another self-check-in. She’s nervous, but not freaking out. Calm? Ha, no. More like, spent. Scoured out. It’s as if she has a tank of feelings, and once it empties she has to idle, waiting for a refill. She knows she’s petrified—she must be, she was only recently losing her shit—but she can’t access it right now.

She observes her own numbness with a kind of wonder.

Nick is intent on the television. Leaning forward, gnawing on a thumbnail. It took a skyscraper-shaking explosion, but he’s finally worried. He was so good to her. It’s a blur now, but she knows he held her and spoke to her. He took care of her. When he must have been so scared himself. He said he was. That, she remembers.

She nudges him with her shoulder. Thank you. For before.

He notices how he’s going at his thumbnail and stops. Which part?

Soothing me, after the…after whatever happened. Wrangling the wild beast.

He nudges her back, holding his shoulder against hers. You’re welcome.

Questions are mounting regarding the fate of what’s believed to be scores of guests still trapped in the upper stories of the building.

She goes to his phone. The internet is now consumed by the fire. It’s an onslaught of speculation, analysis, utter nonsense. They have a hashtag. No, several.

She checks in with @firechieftim, who has been a sane, steadying voice throughout. He’s got a long stream of new posts. The latest:

remember the old firefighter’s saying, folks: a building on fire is a building under demolition.

Jesus Christ.

Not helpful, Chief Tim.

Really not helpful!

Though hotel management is remaining tight-lipped, social media is alight with rumors and evidence of celebrity sightings at the luxury hotel in recent days.

Called it! Nick says. The jackals.

He called it, huh? He was right about something? She was right about something, too. A big fricking something. She should be angry—she should be enraged at having been right, and having been ignored by him, having ignored herself. She should be kicking herself, kicking him, kicking the door down.

But she can’t find her anger. It must be hiding out with her fear. Waiting to be toppedup.

She moves to the door. Still no smell of smoke. If she pulls the towels away…

She’s not going to do that. Why would she do that?

The towels are fine where they are.

She wanders back into the room. No, she’s not angry. Certainly not at Nick. Look at him, peering at the television. One of his knees is juddering up and down.

CNN is playing footage of the explosion filmed fromdifferent angles, including at what looks like the same height. People must be watching from other buildings. Filming with their phones.

Guests are frantically calling loved ones and posting on social media, looking for any information they can find. We’re about to show you a video filmed by—have we confirmed this is genuine? Okay, we’re about to play you a video posted by a man on the thirty-seventh floor, who identifies himself as Howard Beale.

Is CNN really going to…yes, they’re airing a TikTok from inside the hotel. A man holding his phone way too close to his face starts explaining what the explosion felt like. His voice is strained. The image is shaky. He’s five floors below them.

Look at all the likes at the bottom of his screen, Nick says. He’s going viral.

He’s going infernal, she says.

He turns to her, surprised. I thought we aren’t allowed to joke.

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