In My Dreams. Muriel Jensen

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      She blamed the sudden acrid smell in the kitchen to preheating an oven that was brand-new. She’d had it only a few days, not even long enough for an errant spill. All thought stopped when a line of flame flared out of the wall just above the stove. She stared at it, unable to believe what her eyes were seeing. The flame was just an inch tall for about a second, like the flame from a candle, then it ate its way up the wall while she watched, openmouthed, until it was halfway up, then angled left, toward the window, obviously following a line of electrical wiring. The curtains ignited, terrifying her.

      Spurred into action, she ran to the narrow utility closet for the fire extinguisher. She scanned the instructions and then, with shaky hands, aimed the nozzle at the flames. Her filmy curtains were already gone and the flames were dancing along the row of tea towels and pot holders hung on a rack there.

      She gasped in alarm as the foamy stuff seemed to be drawn out the window, rather than to extinguishing the flames. Even worse, the line of flame was still running along the wall, perforating the living-room wallpaper as it went. It passed behind a glass-covered photo of her parents’ wedding, the heat of it bursting the glass from behind and knocking it off the wall.

      Mouth agape, she stared, then aimed the extinguisher at it. The tank fizzled.

      She fought panic as heat and smoke quickly made the room uninhabitable. She snatched her purse off the table and ran out the door.

      She dialed 9-1-1 on her cell and gave a shaky but clear account to the dispatcher, who told her to get her neighbors and go across the street, that the fire department was coming. “There’s no one in the building but me right now,” she said, breathless.

      “All right. Wait across the street.”

      David Lester, who lived next door to her, was in his second year at Coast Community College and seldom came home until late, but she pounded on his door anyway. No answer.

      The Moffits, the young couple who lived next to the empty apartment upstairs, were on vacation.

      Sarah hurried across the street. A crowd had begun to gather as dark smoke billowed out of her windows and flame was visible in the upper floor.

      She was losing everything, she thought with an odd disconnection that probably had something to do with shock. It didn’t look as though there would be anything left. Her clothes. Her computer. Jerica’s bear! Sarah had bought it for her and the child had loved it. Her parents had given it to Sarah when Jerica died.

      The whine of a siren announced the arrival of a police car. Ben and his partner, Grady Nelson, leaped out. Sarah ran across the street toward them, a dark SUV screeching to a halt as she crossed its path. She waved a distracted apology and continued to run.

      Ben had already disappeared into the fourplex. As a fire truck screamed its arrival, she raced into the building. She heard Ben shouting her name from inside her apartment. She followed the sound.

      “I’m here!” she screamed, trying to find the tiny hallway to her bedroom so she could retrieve Jerica’s bear from its spot on the bed.

      She reached a hand out in the blinding smoke, sure she was at the hallway, when another strong hand caught it.

      “Sarah!” Ben shouted. “What are you doing? Get out!”

      “Okay, but I have to—”

      “Get out, Sarah! Now!”

      “No, I have to get the bear!”

      “What? No!”

      She yanked away from him. “Please, Ben...”

      He pushed her bodily ahead of him and out the front door. He pointed across the street when she tried to push around him to get back inside. His face was smudged with smoke and his eyes hard with determination. This wasn’t the sweet man she’d been dating. This was the cop doing his job.

      She tried to explain.

      “No!” he interrupted, pushing her toward the sidewalk. “You can’t go back inside. Whatever’s in there isn’t anymore. Is there anyone upstairs?”

      “No.”

      “Pets?”

      “Not allowed.”

      He led her across the street, shouted, “Stay here!” then raced back to join Grady as he emerged from the building.

      She stood across the street with her neighbors in silent disbelief. All around them, onlookers were talking about old buildings, smoke alarms, homeowner’s insurance, but she wasn’t following any of it. As they watched, the side window blew out and flames caught the grass that led to the concrete pad where residents of the apartment parked their cars. Her Jeep, the closest to the building, caught fire.

      “No!” she cried, taking several steps toward it, but an onlooker stopped her.

      “Not smart, ma’am,” the man said. “Look. That fireman’s going to get it.”

      A fireman working that side of the building aimed his hose at the car. By the time he was able to extinguish the fire, the tires were gone. The car listed sadly, like a big, broken toy.

      She was homeless. And she was probably afoot for a while, too. A weird calm overtook her as she realized that now she had no possessions. She began to pace, watching Ben and Grady run back down the front steps. Grady was on the radio attached to his collar, probably reporting in to Dispatch, and Ben was on his cell phone.

      Sarah imagined tomorrow’s Beggar’s Bay Bugle headline: “Bay Apartments Burn to the Ground. Residents Unhurt But Lose Everything.”

      What was she going to do? She’d think of something, but at the moment, her brain didn’t seem to be operating.

      “Sarah.”

      Sarah turned at the sound of her name and was surprised to see Jack standing there in the paint-smeared jeans and sweatshirt he wore to work in the carriage house. On his head was a pale denim baseball cap with the insignia of the Cavalry Scouts—crossed swords in gold—and the words US Cavalry. His eyes, under the bill of the cap, were dark with worry.

      Emotion swelled in her and threatened to rise in her throat in a sob. She inhaled a breath and forced it down.

      “Hi,” she said, her voice shaky and a little thin. “What are you doing here?”

      “Ben called me.” He placed his hands gently on her arms as he looked into her eyes. “Are you okay?”

      Before she could answer, he shook his head. “Forget that. Stupid question. Of course, you’re not okay.” He turned his head in the direction of the fire and swore under his breath. Then he refocused on her. “What I meant to ask was, are you hurt?”

      She had to take another breath to keep the sob at bay. “I’m not hurt. Just sort of...” What? Shocked? Scared? Alone?

      The sob erupted anyway. She tried to swallow it and that somehow made it louder.

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