A hand flew to my mouth.
Anne. Could she be alive? “Q” had talked of three bodies in the ashes. Was Anne inside!
Darting to the stoop, I grabbed my jacket, rushed back, squatted, and wrapped Tawny. Sleet ticked and bounced off the nylon.
“Did you see another woman in the house?”
Tawny continued rocking and sobbing.
I gripped her shoulders and repeated my question.
Tawny nodded.
“Where?”
The bony shoulders trembled.
“Where?” I screamed.
“F-floor.”
“What room?”
She looked up, mute.
“The room, Tawny. What room?”
I shook her, repeated my question.
“B-b-back. Basement. I don’t kn-know.” Ash speckled her face. Sweat soaked her hair.
As I stood motionless, undecided, the acrid smell of burning slammed my nostrils, and the size of the orange glow increased.
Anne didn’t have time for 911! I had to go back!
But I was soaked in gasoline.
With shaking fingers, I unlaced and yanked off my boots, stripped to my undies, then shoved my feet back into the boots. After wetting my cushion cover with snow, I dashed back to the house, head a vortex of pain. At the open door, I dropped to a squat and duck-walked into the smoke.
Stumbling to the armchair, I snatched Tawny’s blanket, draped my shoulders, and groped my way toward the back of the house.
Again, I tried to recall the layout of the back hall. This time my tortured brain warped up a floor plan. Kitchen to the left. Parlor to the right, study or bedroom beyond. Basement stairs descending from a bedroom straight ahead.
Though flame-free, the hallway was dense with smoke. I felt my way blindly, chest and throat tormented.
My hamstrings screamed in protest. Now and then I winged an elbow or banged a shin. I blundered on, one hand extended, the other clamped to my mouth. I thought only of Anne.
Then my outstretched hand slammed something hard. My stomach lurched. I tasted bile.
I flattened my palm on the door. The wood felt warm. I moved it up. Warmer.
I touched the knob. Hot. I turned it, inched open a peephole.
Flames twisted from the bed and curled the drapes at the back of the room. In the dancing shadows, I saw a shape on the floor.
I flung the door wide.
“Anne!”
The shape didn’t move.
“Annie!”
Nothing.
Tossing aside my swatch of fabric, I crawled to Anne, pulled the blanket from my shoulders, and folded it lengthwise in layers beside her.
When I sat back, pain exploded in my head. I forced the throbbing to the basement of my skull.
Mustering my dwindling reserves, I rolled Anne onto the blanket, dug beneath her, and pulled an edge. The blanket unfolded and slid between Anne’s body and the floor. I felt my way to an end, wrapped one corner around each hand, and began backing out of the room and down the hall.
Anne weighed a thousand pounds. I tried to reassure her, gagged.
I hadn’t taken time to check for a pulse. Was she alive?
I tugged at my homemade travois, gaining inches with each burst. My arms and legs turned to rubber.
I heaved and heaved, coughing and panting, every cell shrieking for air. Now and then I flinched as something exploded or crashed in the house. Backing into the parlor, I twisted my head up and around for a quick assessment. Through the smoke I could see flames working up the walls. Only a narrow path down the center remained fire free.
