MILA Origins 2.0 - The Fire

overhead, shinny down the tree, and I’ll be free.
    Nothing stirs on the street below, and the houses across the way are quiet, lit only by porch lights and an occasional upstairs window. Clearly, no one is aware of the fire yet. As much as Dad annoys the neighbors by allowing the contents of our garage to spill into the driveway like a never-ending rummage sale, none of them are mean enough to turn their backs while those same belongings burn to the ground. No, all I have to do is get down and bang on the Rogerses’ door until they let me use the phone.
    I step up onto the bottom rung of the wrought-iron fence that outlines the balcony. But as I reach for the thick, leglike branch of the tree, my gaze snags on something. My hand slips from the limb, and crumpled brown leaves rain down like charred snowflakes. I freeze, a tight band squeezing my heart. No .
    Backlit by a full moon, my parents’ silver Volvo gleams in the driveway.
    They’re home. Inside. Possibly asleep and totally unaware.
    Smoke inhalation…
    Three minutes…
    I can’t cross the street to the neighbors’. By the time a fire truck arrives, it will be too late.
    I have to get them out. Now.
    I whirl to face the roof and follow the slanted eave with my eyes. Up. I have to go up. Fire always goes upward in search of oxygen, so if it’s already outside my door, then it’s probably raging downstairs. No, my best bet is climbing around to the hallway window on the side of the house and praying the fire isn’t there yet.
    I reach for the eave with one hand and curl my other around the iron ball that decorates the top of the balcony fence. The roof is slick with moisture, making it hard to hold. I steady myself, then pull the foot closest to the window to the top.
    One, two, three… I release my lower hand and grab for the roof. My fingers skim the edge just as my free foot searches for the top of the fence.
    Slam! My bare ankle hits wrought iron. The unexpected jolt shakes me, and my fingers slip. My entire body pitches backward, and I’m falling.
    Stars blur across the night sky as my head rushes back, as my fingernails skid to the very edge.
    With a last, desperate push on my stable foot, I surge upward. My nails scrabble for purchase. My free foot dangles wildly in the air for a gut-wrenching instant before finally finding the top of the bar. To the frantic drumbeat of my pulse, I pull myself upward tile by tile until I get one knee up. The other knee follows, and then I’m on the roof.
    The slanted angle is steep, which makes crawlingawkward. I glance at the ground below but quickly retrain my eyes forward with a hard swallow. No falling. On the slippery roof, the distance over to the hall window feels infinite. Almost there, almost there, I chant, pushing my fear-stiffened limbs forward.
    Finally, I round the corner. When I reach the hall window, there’s no balcony. Just a tiny sliver of tile underneath. I keep my eyes off the long drop to the ornamental iron spikes that enclose the brick patio below and edge my way onto the narrow patch of tile. Using one hand to keep my balance, I use the other to yank at the window.
    It won’t budge.
    With a deep breath for courage, I grab the overhang with both hands, gather my strength, and kick with all my might. Glass shatters inward with a sharp tinkling. I reach in and unlock the window, careful to avoid the jagged edges.
    I’m finally back inside.
    Smoke furls in big, gray plumes. The heat bites at my throat again, so I pull my T-shirt up over my mouth and nose. The smoke is thick, but to my left I see the glimmer of orange flames peeking through the black cloud surrounding the doorway to my room.
    I shudder and turn away, wading through the smoke. I stumble-drag my way toward my parents’ room. Through the haze inside the doorway, I can just make out their bed.
    The covers are rumpled and lumpy. Like two bodies aresleeping there.
    The bed is still. Too late is my first thought, the one that almost brings me to my knees. I’m too late.
    “No,” I sob, stumbling closer. The haze clears, just a little, and through my dampening eyes I see what I missed before.
    The bed is empty.
    I look to the right, on the floor near Dad’s bedside table, where he tosses his dirty clothes every night.
    Bare. No sports jacket, no pants. Not even a dress shoe.
    No, the only article of clothing is draped across the back of his chair, where he always keeps it. His lucky Phillies jersey.
    My legs shake.