“No.”
But I said, “Yes.”
“Mara—”
“I said yes.”
My voice did not sound like mine.
Briggs pressed play.
Static filled the kitchen.
Then chaos.
A woman coughing.
Sirens far away.
A child crying.
My skin tightened.
I gripped the edge of the table.
A dispatcher’s voice came through, tinny and calm.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
Then a boy’s voice.
High. Terrified. Breathless.
“There’s fire! There’s fire in the house!”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know the number. It’s the yellow house near Maple and Third. Please, she’s inside!”
My mother covered her mouth.
I stared at the recorder.
The boy was crying so hard he could barely speak.
“Who is inside?”
“The girl. The girl with the fire truck. She’s in the kitchen. Please hurry!”
Something crashed in the background.
The dispatcher said, “Do not go back inside. Stay outside.”
But the boy was no longer answering.
There was shouting.
Smoke.
Then the tape distorted.
When the sound cleared again, the boy was closer, coughing violently.
“I got her,” he sobbed. “I got her out. She’s not waking up.”
A smaller sound followed.
A girl’s whimper.
Me.
My mother began to cry.
