Page 2 of Feastin' with Fire
I'm arranging a bouquet of white lilies and blue hydrangeas when I first smell the smoke.
Something's burning. Probably Mrs. Geller's incense next door in her fortune-telling shop. I shake my head, trying to focus on the thanksgiving consultation I have scheduled for tomorrow. These sample arrangements need to be perfect.
The smell grows stronger.
My hands freeze mid-snip, scissors hovering over a stem. This isn't incense. This is thicker, acrid—wrong. I set down my tools and move toward the back room where I keep my supplies, my heart beginning to race.
"Hello?" I call out, though I know I'm alone in the shop. I always am, until closing time at six.
When I push open the door to the storage area, black smoke billows out, stinging my eyes and filling my lungs in an instant. I stumble backward, coughing violently, my eyes watering. Through the haze, I see flames licking up the wall where my electrical panel is, where I'd stacked boxes of dried flowers and ribbon this morning.
Oh God. My shop. My everything.
Panic freezes me in place for one terrible moment. This can't be happening. Not now. Not when I've finally found something that's truly mine.
The smoke alarm finally shrieks to life, the sound piercing through my shock. I need to get out. I turn toward the front door, but the smoke is thickening rapidly, spreading through my small shop. My beautiful flowers, my arrangements, all disappearing into the growing darkness.
I drop to my knees, remembering something about staying low to avoid smoke inhalation. The heat is building, sweat beading on my forehead as I crawl toward what I hope is the front of the store. My eyes are burning so badly I can barely see, and each breath feels like swallowing fire.
My parents' voices echo in my head: *This foolish dream of yours will end in disaster, Lily. You're throwing away everything we've built for you.*
They were right. Of course they were right. I'm not meant for independence. I'm not strong enough for this.
Something crashes behind me—shelving collapsing, maybe—and I scream, the sound catching in my smoke-raw throat. I've lost my bearings completely now. The smoke is so thick I can't see my hand in front of my face.
I'm going to die here, surrounded by burning flowers. The bitter irony doesn't escape me, dying among the very things that were supposed to give me new life.
I curl into a ball on the floor, coughing so hard I taste blood. My chest feels like it's being crushed. I think of my parents, who won't even know what happened to me. Will they cry? Or will they just shake their heads at the predictable end to my rebellion?
The roar of the fire grows louder, hungry and demanding. I close my eyes.
Then, through the chaos, I hear it. A voice calling out, muffled but unmistakable.
"Fire department!"
Hope surges through me, giving me one last burst of energy. I try to call back, but my voice is gone, replaced by another fitof coughing. I pound my fist against the floor instead, praying they'll hear me.
Heavy footsteps approach, and suddenly there's a looming figure above me: a firefighter in full gear, face hidden behind a mask. Strong arms slide beneath me, lifting me effortlessly.
"I've got you," a deep voice says through the mask. "Just breathe."
I'm cradled against a broad chest as we move through the inferno that was my shop. I catch glimpses through watering eyes. Flames devouring my arranged displays, water from hoses turning everything to soggy ash, the hand-painted sign I spent weeks perfecting now blackened beyond recognition.
Then we're outside, the cool evening air hitting my smoke-scorched lungs like a shock. I gasp and cough, my whole body convulsing with the effort to breathe clean air again.
The firefighter sets me gently on a stretcher that's appeared beside an ambulance. I didn't even hear the sirens. He removes his mask, and I get my first clear look at my rescuer. Intense blue eyes in a soot-streaked face, dark hair matted with sweat, strong jaw clenched with concern.
"What's your name?" he asks, his voice gentler than I expected from someone so imposing.
"Lily," I manage between coughs. "Lily Anderson."
"You're going to be okay, Lily," he says, and I want desperately to believe him. "The paramedics will take care of you now."
As oxygen is placed over my face, I watch him turn back toward my burning shop. Tears stream down my face, cutting clean tracks through the soot.
It's all going up in flames. My independence, my fresh start, every penny I had in the world.
The paramedics are asking me questions, but I can't focus on their words. My gaze stays fixed on my shop: on the firefighters battling to save what's left of it, on the curious onlookers gathering at the edges of the chaos, on the water that runs black with ash into the street gutters.
