Chapter 2 - Flames on the Front Lawn
The first blast of cold air hit my face with shocking violence.
"We've got one victim! Female, mid-thirties, unconscious but breathing!"
Shouted commands ripped through the night air, accompanied by the mechanical scream of diesel engines and the deafening clatter of heavy equipment. I opened my eyes to see blinding red and amber strobes painting the wet asphalt, spinning reflections across rain puddles. I was lying on the wet lawn across the street, wrapped in a thick, metallic thermal blanket. An oxygen mask was strapped firmly over my nose and mouth, pumping sweet, cold air into my starved lungs.
A paramedic in yellow turnout gear was kneeling over me, his gloved fingers pressed against my carotid artery. "Stay still, ma'am. You're safe. We've got you."
I turned my head weakly to the left.
What I saw tore a sound from my throat that the oxygen mask muffled. Our home—the 1920s Craftsman bungalow James had spent five years restoring with his own hands, the porch where we had sat every summer evening—was engulfed in a towering column of orange fury. Flames were roaring through the second-story bedroom windows, tearing through the roof shingles and sending clouds of bright sparks spinning into the rain-soaked Oregon sky. Three fire hoses were pumping thousands of gallons of water into the structure, but the natural gas feed had turned the basement into an inferno.
"James..." I choked out, tearing at the rubber mask. "His things... the suitcases in the hall..."
"Ma'am, don't move!" the paramedic urged gently, holding my shoulders down. "The entryway collapsed thirty seconds after Captain Miller pulled you out through the front bay window. The roof is giving way. Nobody goes back in."
As if to confirm his words, the central ridge of the roof gave in with a thunderous crack, showering the front lawn with glowing embers. Forty years of family heirlooms, our wedding albums, James’s handwritten letters, his grandfather’s watch, and the suitcases containing his final clothes from Munich—all of it vanished into the inferno in front of my eyes.
Neighbors in raincoats stood along the sidewalk behind the yellow police tape, watching with pale faces and hands over their mouths. Among them was Marcus, our retired neighbor from across the cul-de-sac. He was holding my mud-spattered handbag, which the firefighters had tossed out onto the grass when they shattered the living room glass.
"Amelia!" Marcus called out, his voice shaking as the officers let him through. "Thank God! I saw the smoke while I was taking the dog out. I called 911 the second I heard the basement window blow."
He knelt down beside the stretcher as the paramedics prepared to lift me into the ambulance. He handed my purse to the EMT, but inside the unzipped leather pouch, my cell phone was buzzing continuously, its screen lighting up with frantic urgency.
A local news van from Portland’s Channel 8 News pulled up abruptly to the curb, its high-powered spotlights illuminating the burning wreckage. A young reporter with a microphone and a cameraman jumped out, capturing live footage of the roaring flames and the stretcher being loaded into the rear of Medic 4. The banner on their broadcast camera read: BREAKING: Massive Gas Explosion Levels Eastside Residence, One Resident Rescued.
Inside the ambulance, the paramedic picked up my phone to silence the ringer so he could check my blood pressure. He glanced at the lock screen, then frowned, his eyes widening slightly at the unread messages displayed on the glowing panel.
"Ma'am," he asked quietly, his voice laced with confusion. "Is your family looking for you?"
I looked at the screen. The family group chat was lighting up in real time, completely unaware of the fire trucks or the oxygen mask on my face.
"Troy: Amelia, Dad says you didn't answer his call about the basement breaker. Why are you ignoring us?"
"Mom: Amelia, we just left the Hendersons. It’s nearly 9:00 p.m. If you need a ride from the airport now, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning. We're too tired."
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A dry, bitter sob caught in my throat. They were still lecturing me about their dinner, while five hundred feet behind us, the only home I had left was turning into a mountain of black embers.
"Close the phone," I whispered to the medic, closing my eyes as the ambulance doors slammed shut and the siren began its mournful wail. "Please. Just close it."
