and melting synthetics.
She pushed anxiously through the bystanders, searching for Gramps. The van was still in the carport. She moved faster through the crowd, her brain screaming, Gramps! Be out here, please.
Suddenly an explosion blew out the living room window sending shards of glass raining onto the lawn. Amy froze, her eyes fixed on the blackened building. He can’t be in there, he just can’t! She pushed along the front of the crowd seeing his face everywhere and yet, nowhere.
She recognized a neighbor and yelled to be heard over the din. “Have you seen Art Hadden?” The old man gave her a fearful look and shook his head. With sick realization, Amy turned around once more and stared at the house. No!
She ducked the yellow tape and spurted for the front door. A deputy caught her before she was halfway across the lawn. “Hey! You can’t go in there!”
“My grandfather—” She screamed. “He’s inside!” He put his hands on her shoulders and forced her back behind the tape. “Please,” she begged, “Help my grandfather. Please!” Amy looked at the people around her. It was clear that no one was going to go into the burning house, not even the firemen.
She shoved through the crowd and dashed into the neighbor’s yard, around to the far side of his house, and into the backyard. No one noticed. Once behind the house, she used the foliage for cover and scrambled toward her grandfather’s bungalow. There were no flames coming from the rear of the house. Hoses shot jets of water from the front street. The overspray soaked her.
There was a small ground-level window that accessed the crawlspace under the house. Amy considered her options. Gramps always kept the back door locked, and she could never break it down. The only other way inside the house was through the crawlspace window on the side of the building. She had to be fast if she wanted to get through it without being seen. Or worse, stopped.
In a crouching run, she dove for it, her right shoulder breaking the glass. A fireman saw her and yelled. For a split second their eyes met, then Amy shoved her body through the narrow opening and ducked inside
The crawlspace was shallow, damp, dark, and smoky. There was about three feet of clearance beneath the floor joists. She glanced around. Her grandparents used the space to store mementos, boxes of Christmas decorations, and bins. Amy bent over and scuttled toward the two-step ladder that led up to the access door and the main floor. By the time she got there her lungs were starved for air. Peeling off her wet jacket, she wrapped it around her head and face, inhaling through the damp fibers.
Still crouched over, she stood on the short ladder and pushed hard on the access door. It swung upward, and Amy found herself in the smoky kitchen. She coughed and pulled her jacket tighter around her head and over her mouth and nose. Her eyes watered. Smoke hung all around her. How would she find him when she could barely see? “Gramps!” she screamed, but the racket inside the burning house swallowed her voice.
Pushing herself off the floor, Amy ran toward the dining room, but leapt back when she had only gone as far as the doorway. Too hot. Flames danced up the walls.
Her lungs were burning now. Blinded by smoke and tears she ducked down, finding it cooler near the floor, the air less putrid. “Gramps!” She was running out of time! Scrambling crab-style back across the kitchen floor, she headed for the hall. Once there, she re-positioned the wet jacket over her head and face and crawled forward on her hands and knees. Too hot. Hurry! No time! Gramps, where are you? The bedroom was about three feet away, but it felt like a mile. She propelled herself into the room, landing beside the bed. She ran her hand over the hot surface—no Gramps. She yanked the blanket off the bed and threw it around her, for protection. Her eyes watered profusely now, blinding her. Coughing, barely able to inhale, she crawled
She pushed anxiously through the bystanders, searching for Gramps. The van was still in the carport. She moved faster through the crowd, her brain screaming, Gramps! Be out here, please.
Suddenly an explosion blew out the living room window sending shards of glass raining onto the lawn. Amy froze, her eyes fixed on the blackened building. He can’t be in there, he just can’t! She pushed along the front of the crowd seeing his face everywhere and yet, nowhere.
She recognized a neighbor and yelled to be heard over the din. “Have you seen Art Hadden?” The old man gave her a fearful look and shook his head. With sick realization, Amy turned around once more and stared at the house. No!
She ducked the yellow tape and spurted for the front door. A deputy caught her before she was halfway across the lawn. “Hey! You can’t go in there!”
“My grandfather—” She screamed. “He’s inside!” He put his hands on her shoulders and forced her back behind the tape. “Please,” she begged, “Help my grandfather. Please!” Amy looked at the people around her. It was clear that no one was going to go into the burning house, not even the firemen.
She shoved through the crowd and dashed into the neighbor’s yard, around to the far side of his house, and into the backyard. No one noticed. Once behind the house, she used the foliage for cover and scrambled toward her grandfather’s bungalow. There were no flames coming from the rear of the house. Hoses shot jets of water from the front street. The overspray soaked her.
There was a small ground-level window that accessed the crawlspace under the house. Amy considered her options. Gramps always kept the back door locked, and she could never break it down. The only other way inside the house was through the crawlspace window on the side of the building. She had to be fast if she wanted to get through it without being seen. Or worse, stopped.
In a crouching run, she dove for it, her right shoulder breaking the glass. A fireman saw her and yelled. For a split second their eyes met, then Amy shoved her body through the narrow opening and ducked inside
The crawlspace was shallow, damp, dark, and smoky. There was about three feet of clearance beneath the floor joists. She glanced around. Her grandparents used the space to store mementos, boxes of Christmas decorations, and bins. Amy bent over and scuttled toward the two-step ladder that led up to the access door and the main floor. By the time she got there her lungs were starved for air. Peeling off her wet jacket, she wrapped it around her head and face, inhaling through the damp fibers.
Still crouched over, she stood on the short ladder and pushed hard on the access door. It swung upward, and Amy found herself in the smoky kitchen. She coughed and pulled her jacket tighter around her head and over her mouth and nose. Her eyes watered. Smoke hung all around her. How would she find him when she could barely see? “Gramps!” she screamed, but the racket inside the burning house swallowed her voice.
Pushing herself off the floor, Amy ran toward the dining room, but leapt back when she had only gone as far as the doorway. Too hot. Flames danced up the walls.
Her lungs were burning now. Blinded by smoke and tears she ducked down, finding it cooler near the floor, the air less putrid. “Gramps!” She was running out of time! Scrambling crab-style back across the kitchen floor, she headed for the hall. Once there, she re-positioned the wet jacket over her head and face and crawled forward on her hands and knees. Too hot. Hurry! No time! Gramps, where are you? The bedroom was about three feet away, but it felt like a mile. She propelled herself into the room, landing beside the bed. She ran her hand over the hot surface—no Gramps. She yanked the blanket off the bed and threw it around her, for protection. Her eyes watered profusely now, blinding her. Coughing, barely able to inhale, she crawled
Similar Books
