the smell of a different kind of smoke in the air. The first smell of something burning had been winter-friendly—woodsmoke from a chimney, a nice blaze going in a fireplace, sitting in a comfy chair while chatting, reading, or staring peacefully deep into cozy tame flames.
But this new smoke smell was brutal, repellent. It was not fragrant wood burning, although wood might have been part of the mix. Mostly it was chemicals on fire—rayon curtains, carbon fiber; the bitter odor of fake things melting—plastic, linoleum, Fortrel carpet; an acrid nasty stink punched your nose. The face recoils in disgust even before the brain registers what’s going on. When you get it, when you understand what the smells probably mean, it scares the hell out of you. Because you realize something big and wrong is on fire—like a house or a car—something you know should never be burning.
Alarmed, Jane slowed and stopped. Looking around, she didn’t see anything suspicious at first. Then farther off down the road to the right there it was—the smoke—and it wasn’t far away.
She started jogging toward it, patting a side pocket to make sure her phone was there in case she needed it.
Sometimes Jane Claudius was good in emergencies, sometimes not. She was very good at faking things, at putting on the right composed face and attitude in a crisis so people thought she was in control, but frequently she wasn’t. What about now? What would she do when she got to the fire? Call the fire department? The police? What if people were hurt? She felt for the phone again. At least she had it to help her.
Down the road, she ran diagonally across someone’s front yard and then onto another smaller road that went in the direction of the smoke. Maybe she should call the fire department right now. But what if they’d already been called and trucks were on the way?
It didn’t matter. You can never be too careful about emergencies—Jane realized she was only looking for an excuse to stop moving and not go any farther, even if it meant only for a minute or two. She did not want to reach the fire and have to act.
Enough of this: Get going. Get moving . Hating herself for hesitating, for being a coward when someone near might need her help, she started running again.
She could really smell burning things now—the caustic odor owned the air, pushing away all others. Her heavy boots on the snow-covered ground made almost no noise, yet everything sounded loud—her footfalls, birdsong, the sound of her breath pumping out, a plane flying by overhead (she wondered for a second if looking down from up there in the sky the passengers could see the smoke). A motorcycle growled along on the road behind her. Could the rider smell the smoke too? How great it would be if the biker caught up and accompanied her. But to her dismay she heard the machine move off into the distance. The sound of its motor grew fainter and fainter until it was gone.
She saw this now: a small bright red house set back from the road a ways. The roof was smoking and then flames shot out from the side of the building. Two men stood in front of the house with their backs to the road. Neither of them was moving, which struck her as very strange. Why weren’t they doing anything? Why weren’t they trying to put out the fire?
At least no one was hurt. She ran toward them. If they were both just standing she assumed they were the only ones who’d been inside the burning building. She called out, “Is everyone all right?” The larger of the two men turned around. She stopped abruptly when she recognized him. “ Kaspar? ”
“Jane! What are you doing here?”
“ Jogging . What’s going on? Have you called the fire department?” The only thing she could think to do next was point to the fire.
The other man turned around and she knew him too. He often drank at her bar. “Bill! Is this your house?”
“Hi Jane. Yes, but it’s okay. We got out safely. Everything else is
But this new smoke smell was brutal, repellent. It was not fragrant wood burning, although wood might have been part of the mix. Mostly it was chemicals on fire—rayon curtains, carbon fiber; the bitter odor of fake things melting—plastic, linoleum, Fortrel carpet; an acrid nasty stink punched your nose. The face recoils in disgust even before the brain registers what’s going on. When you get it, when you understand what the smells probably mean, it scares the hell out of you. Because you realize something big and wrong is on fire—like a house or a car—something you know should never be burning.
Alarmed, Jane slowed and stopped. Looking around, she didn’t see anything suspicious at first. Then farther off down the road to the right there it was—the smoke—and it wasn’t far away.
She started jogging toward it, patting a side pocket to make sure her phone was there in case she needed it.
Sometimes Jane Claudius was good in emergencies, sometimes not. She was very good at faking things, at putting on the right composed face and attitude in a crisis so people thought she was in control, but frequently she wasn’t. What about now? What would she do when she got to the fire? Call the fire department? The police? What if people were hurt? She felt for the phone again. At least she had it to help her.
Down the road, she ran diagonally across someone’s front yard and then onto another smaller road that went in the direction of the smoke. Maybe she should call the fire department right now. But what if they’d already been called and trucks were on the way?
It didn’t matter. You can never be too careful about emergencies—Jane realized she was only looking for an excuse to stop moving and not go any farther, even if it meant only for a minute or two. She did not want to reach the fire and have to act.
Enough of this: Get going. Get moving . Hating herself for hesitating, for being a coward when someone near might need her help, she started running again.
She could really smell burning things now—the caustic odor owned the air, pushing away all others. Her heavy boots on the snow-covered ground made almost no noise, yet everything sounded loud—her footfalls, birdsong, the sound of her breath pumping out, a plane flying by overhead (she wondered for a second if looking down from up there in the sky the passengers could see the smoke). A motorcycle growled along on the road behind her. Could the rider smell the smoke too? How great it would be if the biker caught up and accompanied her. But to her dismay she heard the machine move off into the distance. The sound of its motor grew fainter and fainter until it was gone.
She saw this now: a small bright red house set back from the road a ways. The roof was smoking and then flames shot out from the side of the building. Two men stood in front of the house with their backs to the road. Neither of them was moving, which struck her as very strange. Why weren’t they doing anything? Why weren’t they trying to put out the fire?
At least no one was hurt. She ran toward them. If they were both just standing she assumed they were the only ones who’d been inside the burning building. She called out, “Is everyone all right?” The larger of the two men turned around. She stopped abruptly when she recognized him. “ Kaspar? ”
“Jane! What are you doing here?”
“ Jogging . What’s going on? Have you called the fire department?” The only thing she could think to do next was point to the fire.
The other man turned around and she knew him too. He often drank at her bar. “Bill! Is this your house?”
“Hi Jane. Yes, but it’s okay. We got out safely. Everything else is
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