Shakespeare's Trollop by Charlaine Harris

C’s antique rolltop desk, its wood dry and ready for the flame after a hundred and fifty years of use.
    The door to Joe C’s bedroom was closed. I didn’t know if that was usual or not. I turned the knob, and it opened. I was having good luck with doors tonight, if nothing else.
    â€œJoe C,” I called hoarsely. “Where are you?” I stepped cautiously into the bedroom and shut the door behind me.
    â€œHere,” came the feeble reply. “I’m trying to open this damn winda.”
    Since Joe C’s bedroom and the kitchen were at the back of the house, away from the streetlight, between the smoke and the natural darkness I couldn’t tell exactly where the old man was.
    â€œSay something!” I began groping my way into the room, colliding with the bedpost as I shuffled forward. That gave me my bearings.
    Joe C said a few things, none of them repeatable.
    Finally I reached him, hearing him begin to cough so violently that I knew he didn’t have long to go if we stayed inside. I followed his hands up to the two locks on the window, and I took over the job of twisting them. The right one was easy, the left one very stiff. I wrestled with it, decided to break the glass in about one second if the lock didn’t give.
    â€œDamn, woman, get us out of here!” Joe C said urgently. “The fire is at the door!” Then he was overwhelmed by another coughing spasm.
    I glanced over my shoulder to see that the door appeared to be cracking, and the cracks had red edges. If I touched that doorknob now, my hands would burn.
    As my whole body would if the damn window…there! The lock gave, I reached down to grip the handles, and I heaved up with all my strength. The window, which I had expected to resist, flew up, and I almost lost my footing. I stuck my hand outward to feel, and encountered a screen. Crap.
    I took a step back, lifted my leg, and let it fly. The screen popped out of the window like a cork from a bottle, and I said, between bouts of a hacking cough, “I’m going out first, and then I’m getting you over the sill, Joe C.”
    He clung to me, still no more than part of the choking darkness, and I had to disengage his hands to swing my leg over the sill. Of course the bushes were thick underneath the window, and since the house was raised, the drop-off was at least a foot higher than I’d anticipated. I didn’t land square on my feet, but careened sideways, grabbing at branches so I wouldn’t end up on the ground. When my footing was stabilized, I turned and felt through the window until I had run my hands under both Joe C’s armpits.
    â€œHold on to my shoulders!” I urged him, and his bony claws dug into my skin. I put my left foot somewhat back to keep me steady, and I heaved. Because of the high window, the angle was bad; I was too short to get a good purchase. I gradually worked Joe C about halfway out the window. He began hollering. I took two steps back and heaved again, my shoulders in agony from the strain. More of the old man appeared on my side of the window. I repeated the whole process. But now Joe C began yelling in earnest. I craned over his back to see that his left foot remained hooked to the sill in some mysterious way.
    I had a moment of sheer panic. I could not think for the life of me—for his life—how I was going to extricate him. Luckily, I didn’t have to solve the problem. There was commotion all around me now. I was never happier to see anyone in my life than the firefighter who pushed past me to unhook Joe C’s left foot and bring it out to join the rest of him. I staggered back under Joe C’s full weight, and instantly men were helping me to stand, whisking the old man over to ambulance.
    They tried to load me in, too, but I resisted. I’m no martyr, but I can only afford minimal insurance, and I could manage to stand and walk.
    I sat on the tailgate of the fire chief’s