Origins: The Fire by Debra Driza Page B

again, so I pull my T-shirt up over my mouth and nose. The smoke is thick, but to my left I see the glimmer of orange flames peeking through the black cloud surrounding the doorway to my room.
    I shudder and turn away, wading through the smoke. I stumble-drag my way toward my parents’ room. Through the haze inside the doorway, I can just make out their bed.
    The covers are rumpled and lumpy. Like two bodies aresleeping there.
    The bed is still. Too late is my first thought, the one that almost brings me to my knees. I’m too late.
    “No,” I sob, stumbling closer. The haze clears, just a little, and through my dampening eyes I see what I missed before.
    The bed is empty.
    I look to the right, on the floor near Dad’s bedside table, where he tosses his dirty clothes every night.
    Bare. No sports jacket, no pants. Not even a dress shoe.
    No, the only article of clothing is draped across the back of his chair, where he always keeps it. His lucky Phillies jersey.
    My legs shake. They’re okay. They aren’t here.
    I turn to escape out their sliding glass door when a noise catches my attention. I freeze, strain to hear. No. Surely not…
    “…ah!” This time the voice is unmistakable, even if the word is garbled.
    Dad’s voice. Coming from downstairs.
    I sway like I’ve been sucker punched. My parents are inside the house.
    “Dad!” I try to scream, but heat clutches at my throat, constricting my vocal cords and making the word emerge in a faint, wheezing whisper. “Mom!” I try again as I run back to the door—but the sound is swallowed by the roarof the flames.
    My hand flies in front of my face, a useless shield from the heat. The fire advances down the hall hungrily. It’s spread with unbelievable speed, like an insatiable beast, one that will only be happy once everything is destroyed.
    That path is gone, but I have to get downstairs. I have to.
    Shoving the door closed, I flee for my parents’ bathroom. I head straight for the shower and race inside. I flip the faucet on full blast and allow the water to drench my entire body, gasping as the cold pelts my skin.
    A few seconds, that’s all I can risk. Once I’m soaking wet, I dampen a shirt I pick up off the floor and tie it around my nose and mouth. In their mirror, my eyes are wide and red streaked above the white fabric, my hair plastered to my head. Water drips down my forehead. Hopefully, the water will be enough to protect me.
    BOOM! I jump at the explosion in the distance. What was that? Part of the house, collapsing? An image of my mom’s face flashes to mind, bleeding, unconscious, buried under rubble and a sea of flames.
    I bolt for the door, which connects down the hall, on the other side of my parents’ door. Good thing it’s closest to the far set of stairs, because already the fire is rushing into my parents’ bedroom in a huge orange wall.
    I run with my eyes watering from the smoke. So hot, it’s so hot. When I reach the top of the stairs, there’s a terriblecrunch overhead. I look up…in time to see a chunk of the flaming beams in the ceiling separate from the rest. The fiery wood plummets right for my head. I dive, the temperature skyrockets, and then a loud crash fills my ears.
    The air around me fragments into black and orange particles.
    I cover my eyes, feeling simultaneous burning on my left calf, my hand, my arm. I roll against the carpet in an attempt to smother any remaining embers.
    I stand just as I hear my father’s stifled scream. Sweat that has nothing to do with the fire beads across my body. Flames crackle in front of me—a writhing orange mass, rearing up from the fallen beam, while behind me the wall of fire steadily flickers my way.
    No way forward, no way back. Besides, Mom and Dad need my help.
    Without giving myself time to think, I turn and race forward. The flaming banister sears my hand, and I can smell the acrid stench of my burning hair, where the flames grab at a few drying strands. My hand erupts into