Free Darla's Story by Mike Mullin

fire
department?”
    “No—”
    I gave him my best “what the hell?” look and
extended both my palms.
    “We tried—our house phone is dead, not even a
dial tone. Cell says ‘no service,’ but that can’t be; it’s usually
five bars here.”
    I thought about that for two, maybe three
seconds and took off running.
     

Chapter 2
     
    Darren and Joe yelled something behind me. I
ignored them and made tracks as best I could. My bruised knees
weren’t helping, neither was my right shoulder. I probably looked
kind of funny trying to sprint with my left arm pumping and my
right cradled against my side.
    Still, I made good time toward the fire
station. Partway there, I realized I was being stupid. I’d taken
off impulsively, needing to do something— anything—instead
of jawing with Darren while my house burned down. I should have
asked Darren and
    Joe to drive me or stopped to grab my bike
from the garage. But by the time I’d thought through it, I was
almost at the fire station.
    I noticed a couple of weird things along the
way. The traffic light I passed was out. That made the run faster—
cars were stopping at the intersection and inching ahead, so I
could dart through easily. I didn’t see house lights on anywhere;
it was early evening and fairly bright outside, but usually there
were at least a few lights shining from somewhere. And in the
distance to my left, four thin columns of smoke rose against the
deep blue sky.
    A generator growled at the side of the fire
station as I ran up. The overhead door was open. I ran through and
dodged around the truck. Three guys in fire pants and light blue
T-shirts with “Cedar Falls Fire Department” on the back huddled
around a radio. A woman dressed the same way sat in the cab of the
ladder truck.
    “Piece of crap equipment purchasing sticks us
with,” I heard one of them say as I approached.
    “Hey kid, we’re—” The guy broke off
mid-sentence when he got a good look at me. Then he sniffed. “Burnt
chicken on a stick, you’ve been in a fire. Y’ought to be at the
hospital.”
    I was gasping, out of breath from the run.
“I’m okay. . . . Neighbors been trying to call . . . ”
    “Yeah, piece of junk ain’t working.” The guy
holding the radio mike slammed it down.
    “My house is on fire.”
    “Where?”
    “Six blocks away.” I gave him my address.
    A guy only slightly smaller than the fire
truck beside him said, “We’re not supposed to go out without
telling dispatch—how we gonna get backup?”
    “Screw that, Tiny. Kid’s house is on fire.
Load it up!” They all grabbed helmets and fire coats off hooks on
the wall. In seconds, I was sandwiched between Tiny and another guy
in the back of the cab. I could just see the firefighter at the
wheel over the mound of equipment separating the two rows of seats.
She flicked a switch overhead, starting the sirens blaring, then
threw the truck into gear. It roared down the short driveway and
narrowly missed a car that failed to stop.
    I glanced at Tiny once during the drive back
to my house. His eyes were scrunched shut, and he was muttering
some kind of prayer under his breath. The firefighter at the wheel
laughed maniacally as she hurled the huge truck back and forth
across the lanes, into oncoming traffic and even halfway onto a
sidewalk once. She swiveled in her seat to look at me, taking her
eyes off the road completely. “Anyone else at home, kid?”
    “No,” I answered, hoping to keep the
conversation short. “Any pets?”
    “No.”
    The ride couldn’t have lasted more than a
minute, but it felt longer. Between the crazy driving and Tiny’s
muttered prayer, I wished I’d run back home instead. The
truck slammed to a stop in front of my house, and before I could
get my stomach settled and even think about moving, the cab was
empty. Both doors hung open. I groaned and slid toward the driver’s
side. Everything hurt: both knees, my right shoulder, the muscles
in my calves and thighs: my