A Life On Fire by Chris Bowsman Page A

woods to see if there was any sign of the fire. He doubted he’d find anything, but had more courage to check with the daylight.
       Three more hours of searching through the woods turned up nothing, which convinced Gerald that either the events at the fire had for sure taken place in the other reality, or that he was for sure bat shit crazy.
        It’s not about crazy , he said, quoting Mr. Holman. He smiled, surprising himself when he realized he was looking forward to seeing Mr. Holman again. Maybe he’d try to be a little nicer and more civil to the guy next time. Or maybe he’d luck out, wake up in bed, find that the last three days hadn’t gone by, and there wouldn’t be a next time. Still, finding out that he’d communicated with Tracy in the other reality made it less unappealing. He wasn’t sure what they’d talked about, or even if he’d really talked to her, but anything was better than nothing.
       The back door to the house opened and Gerald stepped through. Immediately, he could tell something was wrong. There were no messes, no papers strewn about, nothing seemingly out of place, but he knew someone had been here. He slipped the pistol from his waistband and reloaded it as quietly as he could, deciding he’d rather chance firing a dirty gun than happen upon an intruder without it. A noise came from the bedroom, and Gerald sprinted down the hall. He burst through the doorway in time to see a shadow slip through the open window, curtains billowing. Gerald ran to the window and looked out but saw nothing. How could he have seen the thing, whatever it had been, slip out, but not see it running away?
       “Because it wasn’t really there,” he said. Not in any real sense, anyway.
       
       
    Gerald called the office to see if they’d opened back up yet. There was no answer, even after the phone rang eight times. He let it ring another ten times and hung up. He thought about calling Matilda at home, to see if she knew what was going on, but couldn’t find her number in his phone.
       “You’ve known her how long and don’t have her phone number?” he said to himself. Many things were becoming evident to him, many of which he didn’t like, such as his apparent habit of taking those around him for granted. He’d have to talk to some of his friends and see if . . . and it struck him that he didn’t really have any friends.
       When Tracy was still alive, they’d had lots of close friends, but since she’d died, he’d cut himself off from nearly everyone. All except the idiots at work , he thought.
       Had he cut himself off purposefully? No, of course not. Looking back, he wasn’t even aware of the point at which he’d ceased to have any real friends, but it didn’t really matter, did it? The end result was the same, and whether it had been the day after her funeral or six months down the line, here he was, standing in the kitchen with no one to whom he could turn.
       No one?
       Well, that wasn’t completely true.
       Gerald smiled and chuckled through his nose as he thought about Wilson. Jesus, how long had it been since he’d talked to the guy? Tracy had never gotten along with Wilson so, as such friendships often do, theirs had faded considerably as she’d taken a larger role in Gerald’s life. Wilson’s number wasn’t even in this cell phone, even though Gerald had had it for nearly two years.
       Two years. A long time to go without speaking to the closest friend he’d ever had. They had grown up together, from the time they were eight years old. During school, they’d alternated spending the weekends at each other’s houses, spent countless hours cruising once they’d obtained driver’s licenses, drank their first beers together . . . not too different from many young American males. However, their story had come to an end without Gerald even realizing it.
       He set to work digging through his desk to find Wilson’s number.