I am a thirty-six-year-old single father who is taking care of my twelve-year-old kid, Nick. Since his mother passed away three years ago, we have been living alone in a small apartment on the ninth floor with noisy pipes, a temperamental elevator, and a hallway that constantly has a subtle burnt toast odor. We’ve managed to make it work even though the property is excruciatingly quiet at night and loud during the day.
Mrs. Lawrence resides next door. She is in her seventies, white-haired, razor-sharp, and wheelchair-bound due to a stroke. She still corrects my grammar without saying sorry, even though she used to teach English. I gave her permission. Nick began referring to her as “Grandma L” long before they both publicly acknowledged it. She listens to him read aloud, bakes pies before his tests, and forces him to redo essays when he confuses the words their, there, and they’re. She keeps him company on late-night workdays so he doesn’t feel lonely.
It began like any other Tuesday. Spaghetti evening. Nick’s favorite since it’s inexpensive and almost hard for me to make a mistake. He stood at the table, scattering cheese all over the place like he was on a culinary show.
“You want more Parmesan, sir?” He declared.
“Chef,” I answered, “that’s enough.” “We already have an overabundance of cheese.”
He smiled and began telling a tale about a math problem that he had finally solved.
The fire alarm then sounded.
I waited at first. False alarms are a common occurrence. However, this one continued. It became an unceasing howl of rage. I smelled it, thick, pungent smoke, a second later.
“Jacket. Shoes. “Now,” I murmured.
After a brief moment of immobility, Nick moved. I opened the door after grabbing my phone and keys. The hallway’s ceiling was covered in curling smoke. There was a coughing person. Another person yelled for everyone to get up.
“The elevator?” Nick enquired.
The panel’s lights were out.
“Stairs,” I said. “Remain ahead of me. A hand on the rail. Keep going.
There was mayhem in the stairway. Pajamas, bare feet, sobbing children, and panic crammed into a small area. When your lungs are burning and your child is only a few steps ahead of you, fully trusting you, nine flights doesn’t seem like much.
My throat ached by the eighth floor. My legs hurt by the fifth. My heart felt like it might stab me in the ribs by the third.
“Are you alright?” Nick cleared his throat.
I lied and said, “I’m good.” “Continue to move.”
Along with the rest of the crowd, we flowed out into the chilly night air. People were shivering and huddled close, covered in blankets. I drew Nick away and knelt down in front of him.
“Are you alright?”
He gave a hasty nod. “Will everything be lost?”
To be honest, I responded, “I don’t know.” I then looked around the audience.
Mrs. Lawrence wasn’t present.
I grabbed Nick’s shoulders and said, “Listen.” “You remain here. alongside the neighbors.
“Why?”
“I must fetch Mrs. Lawrence.”
It clicked right away. “She can’t use the stairs, Dad.”
“I understand.”
“You’re not allowed to return inside.”
“I won’t abandon her.”
He took hold of my arm. “What if you have an incident?”
I inhaled. “I would never forgive them if something happened to you and nobody came to your aid. I can’t be that individual. I need you to be secure. This is it.
He took a swallow. “All right.”
“I adore you.”
“I also love you.”
Everyone else was running out the building, so I turned around and went back inside.
It was rougher going up than going down. The temperature of the air was higher. It’s a louder alarm. My lungs were burning by the time I got to the ninth floor.
Mrs. Lawrence was already in the corridor, her handbag clasped in her lap and her hands trembling on her wheelchair. She let out a sigh of relief as she spotted me.
She exclaimed, “Oh thank God.” “The elevators don’t function.”
“You’re accompanying me.”
“A wheelchair cannot be rolled down nine flights.”
I said, “I’m not rolling you.” “You’re in my arms.”
I locked the wheels, put one arm behind her back and one under her legs, and lifted despite her feeble protests. I was surprised to see how light she was. She slid her fingers inside my shirt.
She whispered, “I’ll haunt you if you drop me.”
I gritted my teeth and muttered, “Fair deal.”
Every step involved balancing willpower and agony. My arms trembled. My eyes hurt from sweat.
She said, “Is Nick safe?”
Indeed. waiting outdoors.
“All right. courageous boy.
I made it through the final floors with that.
We arrived at the lobby. Even though my knees were on the verge of giving out, I continued until we were outdoors. Nick’s eyes were wide as he ran toward us.
“Dad! Grandma L!
Fire engines showed up. The night was pierced by sirens. The eleventh story was where the fire had begun. Most of it was handled by sprinklers. Although smokey, our apartments were undamaged. However, the elevators were not working.
I carried her up once more when they allowed us back inside. This time, slower. relying on landings. The entire time, she apologized.
I told her, “You’re not a burden.” “You belong to the family.”
Stairs and aching muscles characterized the next two days. I moved her furniture, removed the trash, and hauled groceries. Her red pen loomed like a threat as Nick completed his assignment at her table once more.
Two days later, there was an attempt to breach my door.
I had grilled cheese on the stove. Nick was grumbling about fractions at the table. The frame rocked from the pounding.
I cautiously opened the door. There was a red-faced man with cheap wrath and an expensive watch.
He growled, “You did it on purpose.” “You are an embarrassment.”
I took a full step into the door. “Who are you?”
“My mom,” he murmured. Mrs. Lawrence. You took advantage of her. Her will is shifting.
Nick’s chair scraped behind me.
“You must go,” I whispered.
He bent in. “This is not finished.”
I closed the door.
He was beating on her door a few moments later.
With my phone up, I entered the hallway. I said, “Hello, I’m reporting an aggressive man threatening a resident with a disability.”
He cursed, froze, and walked away.
Mrs. Lawrence felt uneasy. She did not refute the will when I questioned her about it.
She declared, “I want what I have left to go to someone who loves me.” “Not someone who comes just to get money.”
I said, “I didn’t help you for that.”
“I am aware,” she answered. “I trust you because of this.”
We had dinner together that evening. basic spaghetti. “So… are we really family?” Nick inquired.
Mrs. Lawrence grinned. “If you agree to allow me to fix your grammar for all time.”
He let out a moan. “All right.”
“Yes,” she replied. “We are related.”
The elevator continues to moan. The stench of burnt toast is still present in the corridor. Her doorframe still has a dent in it.
But occasionally, the folks who run back into the flames for you are the ones who live next door. Sometimes your entire life is altered by bringing someone down nine flights of stairs.