fire in the neighborhood

A dark street. Frantic shouting. An orgy of men running. A ghastly look of fear across the onlookers’ face. People brushing past me. Cloths stained with blood. My heart skips a beat. I am wet with my perspiration. It is unbearably hot. The street is full of water. The puddles reflect the light from the beacon. The siren from the firetruck is almost deafening punctuated only by my own thoughts.

Sweaty men emerge from behind the thick black smoke. Victorious. Or maybe not. Their shirts stick to their round bellies. I count the trucks pull away. One. Two. Three. Four. Not sure if someone could survive such a devastating fire.

I want to run to people. Shout. “Is someone going to tell me what happened? I knew them! Where are they?”

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