I wake to the sound of sirens and the smell of smoke. When did I black out? How long was I gone? I cough and sit up as best I can, looking around me. Everything is burning. Suddenly, I remember my child. I have to find my kid. I’m on the floor next to the oven that burns a blinding light. Crawling across the ground, hands and knees barely support me as I slowly make my way to the living room where his crib sits. I cannot find my kid.
Frantic now, heart pounding with urgency, I crawl to the bathroom in hopes I’ll find him there. Crispy soap, melted shampoo bottles, and foul-smelling towels surround me. My kid is not here. He is not hiding in the cupboard or behind the mirror. I cannot find my kid.
My lungs are clogged from smoke, and my breathing is labored as I search around the rest of the lower floor, wondering why no firemen, no ambulances have arrived to save us. Slowly, I gather up my breath enough to shout, “Enola! Enola!” No response. No faint giggle. No panicked wail. I cannot find my kid.
I manage to reach the furthest back room without too much difficulty, though the fire is growing higher around me. He got away, I tell myself over and over, until I believe it to be true. If that’s true, though, why haven’t they come back for me? I brush the thought aside. I’ve been moving around too much. Maybe they can’t find me. It’s worth it for Enola. I will do anything for him. The couch has nothing under it. The shelves hold nothing but the remains of shattered pots. I cannot find my kid.
Finally, I collapse and decide it’s time to drag myself to the front door. The firemen and doctors are here now, so I can ask them where he is. Trembling, in pain, fear, and smoke inhalation I manage to pull myself up to the door. All the men in white jackets rush over to me. “Where is my son?” I croak, barely breathing. Barely awake. Barely alive. Before they can answer, the world goes black again. I finally found my kid.