handheld shower nozzle, and cranked the water full blast. Flo had taken Mr. Colgate’s jacket from the towel rack and wrapped it around Trixi, holding the shaking bundle under her arm.
“What are we going to do?” she shouted before covering her mouth with the crook of her arm. My mind spun like a top, assessing our situation. We were surrounded by flames, and flames were even beginning to descend through the ceiling vent, which meant the roof was also on fire. The only thing keeping us from turning to charcoal was the flame-resistant ceramic tile in the bathroom and the pathetic spray of water from the shower nozzle.
Flo said something I couldn’t hear. “What?” I yelled back. She said it again. “What?”
She wrapped her free arm around me and buried her face into my neck. “I love you, kid,” she hollered.
I felt the panic well in my throat. Flo is giving up. If Flo is giving up it must be bad. “What’s that?” I asked.
“I said I love you,” she repeated.
“I mean what is that sound? Do you hear that?” I continued to spray the flames with the shower hose, but it was like spitting on a campfire, at best it was barely delaying the inevitable. Then there was the sound again. Was it . . . was that a car horn ?
Suddenly the Humvee crashed through the wall of the bedroom like a military tank, which, come to think of it, is kind of what a Humvee was. The ceiling collapsed on top of it in a cascade of burning beams and plywood, not making a dent, not even slowing it down as it pulled up flush next to us and the door sprang open.
“Get in!” we heard Ms. Washington scream from behind the wheel.
No need to tell us twice. Flo and I both flew through the open door and barely had time to shut it before the tank ground into reverse and we barreled backward out the opening, over the shrubbery, and into the neighbor’s rosebushes. Ms. Washington shifted into drive and annihilated the rest of the landscaping as we tore out of there. When we passed the blaring fire trucks speeding in the other direction on the way to where we just came, the three of us were screaming at the tops of our lungs—from panic, fear, exhilaration, joy, you name it, we were screaming.
Flo and I both descended into fits of coughing. When we finally recovered, I climbed into the backseat and Flo remained up front. “What the hell are you doing driving this thing?” Flo wiped tears from her eyes and smiled at Ms. Washington. “Where’s Scooter?”
“He was inside Starbucks taking forever,” Ms. Washington said breathlessly. “He left your phone in the car, and you kept sending texts, and I didn’t think you had time to wait for him to get back. The keys were in the ignition so I just took off! When I got there I saw the place was on fire. I couldn’t believe how quickly it spread! I could see the two of you through the bedroom window, on the other side of the flames. There was no fire truck in sight so I just gunned it!”
She swerved to the right a bit and took down a road sign like it was a dried weed. “Oops,” she giggled.
“Ms. Washington,” I laughed, “be careful.”
“My name is Anita.”
We were still punch drunk as she popped a curb and traversed an irrigation ditch to pull into the Starbucks parking lot and screech to a stop next to a frowning Roundtree, who was holding a venti latte and tapping his foot impatiently. “Get in,” Anita hollered at him. Surprisingly he climbed into the backseat without complaint. As he settled himself next to me he sniffed the air with consternation.
“Flo,” he chided, “have you been smoking in my car again?”
“I guess you could say that,” Flo said, and we three collapsed into laughter again, which was brought to another level when Trixi wrestled free from her protective wrapping to spring into Roundtree’s lap, upsetting his treasured beverage.
But the giddiness was short-lived. Soon the gravity of our situation descended back upon us. After explaining what
“What are we going to do?” she shouted before covering her mouth with the crook of her arm. My mind spun like a top, assessing our situation. We were surrounded by flames, and flames were even beginning to descend through the ceiling vent, which meant the roof was also on fire. The only thing keeping us from turning to charcoal was the flame-resistant ceramic tile in the bathroom and the pathetic spray of water from the shower nozzle.
Flo said something I couldn’t hear. “What?” I yelled back. She said it again. “What?”
She wrapped her free arm around me and buried her face into my neck. “I love you, kid,” she hollered.
I felt the panic well in my throat. Flo is giving up. If Flo is giving up it must be bad. “What’s that?” I asked.
“I said I love you,” she repeated.
“I mean what is that sound? Do you hear that?” I continued to spray the flames with the shower hose, but it was like spitting on a campfire, at best it was barely delaying the inevitable. Then there was the sound again. Was it . . . was that a car horn ?
Suddenly the Humvee crashed through the wall of the bedroom like a military tank, which, come to think of it, is kind of what a Humvee was. The ceiling collapsed on top of it in a cascade of burning beams and plywood, not making a dent, not even slowing it down as it pulled up flush next to us and the door sprang open.
“Get in!” we heard Ms. Washington scream from behind the wheel.
No need to tell us twice. Flo and I both flew through the open door and barely had time to shut it before the tank ground into reverse and we barreled backward out the opening, over the shrubbery, and into the neighbor’s rosebushes. Ms. Washington shifted into drive and annihilated the rest of the landscaping as we tore out of there. When we passed the blaring fire trucks speeding in the other direction on the way to where we just came, the three of us were screaming at the tops of our lungs—from panic, fear, exhilaration, joy, you name it, we were screaming.
Flo and I both descended into fits of coughing. When we finally recovered, I climbed into the backseat and Flo remained up front. “What the hell are you doing driving this thing?” Flo wiped tears from her eyes and smiled at Ms. Washington. “Where’s Scooter?”
“He was inside Starbucks taking forever,” Ms. Washington said breathlessly. “He left your phone in the car, and you kept sending texts, and I didn’t think you had time to wait for him to get back. The keys were in the ignition so I just took off! When I got there I saw the place was on fire. I couldn’t believe how quickly it spread! I could see the two of you through the bedroom window, on the other side of the flames. There was no fire truck in sight so I just gunned it!”
She swerved to the right a bit and took down a road sign like it was a dried weed. “Oops,” she giggled.
“Ms. Washington,” I laughed, “be careful.”
“My name is Anita.”
We were still punch drunk as she popped a curb and traversed an irrigation ditch to pull into the Starbucks parking lot and screech to a stop next to a frowning Roundtree, who was holding a venti latte and tapping his foot impatiently. “Get in,” Anita hollered at him. Surprisingly he climbed into the backseat without complaint. As he settled himself next to me he sniffed the air with consternation.
“Flo,” he chided, “have you been smoking in my car again?”
“I guess you could say that,” Flo said, and we three collapsed into laughter again, which was brought to another level when Trixi wrestled free from her protective wrapping to spring into Roundtree’s lap, upsetting his treasured beverage.
But the giddiness was short-lived. Soon the gravity of our situation descended back upon us. After explaining what
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