Someone pounded on the glass door leading to the patio. The girl nearest to it turned and drew aside the blinds. Standing there in the near-night was a pale, skinny boy in oversized black clothing. He looked nervous. She tilted her head, questioning him.
“The building’s on fire!” He shouted through the glass door. The girl blinked. It was as though she hadn’t even heard him, as though he had just moved his lips soundlessly.
“What?” she asked, her voice taking the tone of someone who had just tuned into the very wrong part of a conversation.
The building’s on fire. Get out. She blinked. They went back and forth like this twice more, the girl unsure yet all too aware of what she had heard, and the lad repeating the fact endlessly.
At last everyone rose. The “mother” of the group told everyone to grab their purses, wallets, or anything else they might need as thirteen people formed a line. The girl heard the glass door open behind her and the young man step into the apartment. She walked calmly to the front where her bag was. Nonetheless, her movements were erratic. She knelt to gather her purse and shoes, wondering why she couldn’t pick them up as easily, completely numb to the can of Dr. Pepper burdening one hand. She wished nimbleness in her fingers, the better to get out of the way in order to let everyone escape the apartment complex. . It was probably a small fire, she told herself. He didn’t sound that frenzied. She wondered where the blaze was.
They stepped outside, and a policeman quickly ushered them across the street. They looked up. The roof was crowned by whipping orange as black smoke charged upward in a sooty rush.
The young man who had warned them was standing a few cars down. The girl who had answered his knock wanted desperately to go to him, to thank him, but her eyes were hostage to the sight before them. The next time she looked back, he was gone.
A woman walked by, asking for wet towels for the firefighters. Everyone looked at her stupidly. The owner of the apartment pointed to his doorway and said, They’re in there. The woman turned to building, and moved on.
One girl dialled home. Mum, before I say anything else, I just want you to know that everyone and everything is all right.
What happened?
The building caught on fire.
Silence. Then, Are you okay?!
Yes, Mum. That’s why I prefaced the entire phone call with it.
Thirteen people sat on a hill across the street from the broiling apartment. Two of them made trips to the gas station, buying water for the fire fighters. The second time they harvested three more of their group. It was decided that if necessary, the girls would use their clothes to carry bottles. One of them wondered what possessed her to wear heels that night.
Flames scuttled across a new section of roof and down the interior walls, eating at tile rapaciously. The power in the apartment was still on – it was a miracle. Everyone latched onto this hopeful sign. The owner of the apartment rested his head in someone’s lap, but at that point smoke got the better of her, and she abandoned the group, trying to find a place to hang her head should her digestive system decide to reverse. The owner soon found her and they sat on the steps talking well into the night, watching the fire creep slowly to his porch roof and running down it like the water that extinguished it seconds later.
Is it just me, or is the chimney leaning to the right, he asked.
She tilted her head. Yeah, I think it’s leaning to the right.
Firemen concentrated their hoses on the chimney, which soon toppled to the ground like a beast felled.
I’m about to lose everything I own for the second time, he whispered.
They’ll stop the fire before then, she assured him. The power’s still on, see?
I see…

That's nonfiction, guys.
This is what happens when I return to civilisation [just in time for the Third Annual Angelina Jolie Sundance Film Festival -- of Hendersonville]. If you heard about an apartment burning down Saturday night, that was us. Can we party, or what?!