NORA & KETTLE

3. SUPER

KETTLE

I like the way the metal of the fire escape creaks beneath my feet. The precariousness of it. It's grating, rusty, and totally man-made. Ordinary people constructed these parts of the building for a practical purpose, and the outside is decorated with that commonality. It drags down the grandness of the stately brownstones, down closer to my level—in the dirt and oily puddles. But mostly, I like the promise of fresh air. The view from the top of a grimy building, an immaculate brownstone, or a department store is the same if you lift your eyes. Just sky, nothing else. When I'm up here, I can pretend. I can forget the outstretched hands, the hungry eyes, and the bellies that are never quite full. I can forget that five nights out of seven, I sleep wedged between a dumpster and a sewer pipe. Pretend that I can't hear and feel the toilet flush every time one of them uses the bathroom.

This is my time to be alone. I don't need long, but minutes where my mind can relax are precious.

Rocking back and forth on the platform, I put my hands on my hips and sigh, reminding myself that I'm luckier than most down there.

I swing my slightly too-big sneakers up over the concrete lip of the building and land with a thud on the roof. Dirt, leaves, and rubbish swish across the tiled surface. The pigeons don't flee; they simply shuffle to a safer distance, huddling in a circle like they're plotting something. A tunnel of warm air hits me in the face. It's too warm. I put my hand up like I can touch it, scanning the sky and wondering where it came from. Rolling my shoulders, I feel a warm chill. It's something odd and wrong that causes my skin to prickle, and my hair to fray and stand on end. It's like anger rising. Steam pushing the lid of a pot up with frantic bubbling.

My nostrils burn. Singe. A smoky cloud slaps my eyes.

Fire.

I squint through the growing smoke, the black soot casting old pictures in front of my eyes. A small, blackened hearth in a flimsy, tar-papered building. Hands covered in calluses and needle pricks held out to warm themselves. The letters U and S not meaning what I thought they meant. Not 'us'. Not us. Only them.

My head falls and I close my eyes, hearing the words, seeing the characters I've almost forgotten how to write, flaring black behind my eyelids. Head down. Prove your loyalty. Show respect.

Across the alley, the low-cost apartment building shudders with a chorus of screams and shouts as what was once a peaceful morning erupts into chaos. I snap back to the present and search the breaking structure before me.

Halfway down the apartment block, the fire escape groans and I watch as a mother, her baby tucked unceremoniously under her arm, scrambles down the metal rungs, her husband right behind her. Thick, black smoke physically shoves them from their home. She glances up at me briefly, opening her mouth but then closing it as her husband pushes her roughly in the back. Her eyes, her whole body, become focused on putting one frightened foot in front of the next.

I start toward the edge of the brownstone I'm on, realizing there's nothing I can do from here. Taking a slice of the sky for later, I swallow what's left of my peace, leaving an empty, unsatisfied feeling in the hollow of my stomach.

I breathe in deeply, wanting that taste of fresh air but savoring only acrid smoke. My ears are punctured by the gathering clamor of noise and panic. Plumes of blinding smoke pours from the windows of the apartments above as now, the fire really means business. The family carefully picks their way down the fire escape way too slowly. I pause, waiting for the sirens and lights.

It takes just five seconds for the first siren to scream.

Gripping the rails, I watch as a piece of charred cardboard floats lazily on the breeze, winding its way up into the sky like a spirit.