Torn by Chris Jordan Page A

he’s doing it now. Plus I saw him with an electric drill in his hand.”
    I’m not reassured. “Remember what happened at Columbine? They waited and waited and waited. Kids bled to death while they waited.”
    “They’ve learned a lot since then,” she says soothingly. “Tommy’s unit studies Columbine. They won’t make the same mistake.”
    “Or they’ll break in too soon and he’ll set off his bomb.”
    “Your little boy will be okay.” She gives me a quick hug. “You’ll see.”
    I can’t blame her for believing that her nephew can work miracles, and I’ve no doubt he’ll try, like all of the others swarming the building. They have one thing in mind, to save the lives of our precious children. But I can’t help fearing the worst.
    God help me, what I fear most is that Noah will make himself the center of attention. Which is what he tends to do when he’s unhappy or under stress. He tries to relieve the tension by doing something silly. Which would be exactly the wrong thing to do around a violent, insane individual.
    Please, Noah, don’t make a joke. Don’t hang erasers on your ears, or scratch under your arms like a monkey. For once in your life blend into the background. Be invisible. Your mother is begging you.
    That’s just about when the smoke starts coming out from under the doors. At first just a whiff, barely there. But smoke, definitely. Was anybody else seeing it? Are my exhausted eyes playing tricks?
    Beside me, Helen mutters, “Oh, no,” and then covers her mouth with her hand, her eyes bright with fear.
    “Oh my god, there’s a fire!” someone shrieks. “He’s lit the school on fire!”
    The crowd begins to keen. Even Helen, my rock, is crying. And me, I’m running through the barricade, spinning away from outstretched hands, with a single purpose in mind. I’m going to smash open an exit door with my own body and get inside.
     
    As it happens, Helen’s nephew Tommy and his fellow state troopers are way ahead of me. They know what smoke means, too. Before I get anywhere near an exit door a couple of big guys smash through with a battering ram and a moment later about a dozen tactical officers run into the smoke wearing headgear and full-face masks.
    Then I’m down, tackled and held by the ankles; all I can do is watch as great billows of black smoke pour from the opening. Behind me the whole crowd is screaming and shouting, but it sounds like background noise because all of my attention is focused on the exit door. On wanting Noah to come racing out of the smoke.
    There are a few popping noises. Gunshots. Just a few. Maybe they got the guy and it’s over. Or maybe it wasn’t a gunshot. Maybe something exploded in the fire.
    They breach another pair of doors and firefighters race into the smoke dragging hoses. Shouting orders, directing the rescue efforts— Over here! Pressure up! Full mask SCBAs! Bring in the air caddys!
    The smoking doorways are thick with emergency responders. All of them diving into the dark, no hesitation. Doing all that can be done, that’s obvious even to a desperate, overwrought mom like me.
    Please, God, please. Let Noah be safe. Let all of them be safe.
    An eternity passes and then suddenly, miraculously, children begin to pour out of the building. They come through the smoke like little football players ripping apart a dark, billowing banner, eager for a game. Or eager to find their mothers, their fathers.
    Child after child emerges from the smoke.
    Whoever has me by the ankles finally relents and I’m up, staggering to the gym with all the other parents—there’s no holding us back now—and child after child is swept up into loving arms. Most of the kids are crying and some of them are coughing, but the smoke, for all its ropy thickness, doesn’t seem to be all that bad. Worse on the eyes than the throat. And it doesn’t smell of fire, which is strange.
    I’m calling out for Noah. At the top of my lungs, I don’t doubt. But I might as