The Cold

Word spreads quickly through the crowd that there is going to be a fire tonight. Everyone in the parking lot speaks in hushed whispers, shivering in the cold antarctic night and wondering whether they should obey the hotel staff's instructions and go back to their rooms until it is time to evacuate. I decide I will go back to my room and pack up my things, and put on some warmer clothes so I won't freeze to death after the evacuation.
Up on the tenth floor I sit on the edge of the bed next to my suitcase, waiting for the phone call. Impatiently, I get up and look out the window to the parking lot and swimming pools below. I can just make out small specks of light from the lanterns of the nervous guests who refused to go back to their rooms.
I hear movement at the door- that must be him- the arsonist. I dash over and fling the door open, but he is gone; I just catch the last echoes of his laugh. I will beat him out of the hotel. My little sister and I take after him, alternating between flying and skating down the spiral ramps and staircases. The hotel has an old feel, though it has been recently renovated, reminiscent of the hotel from The Shining. The arsonist has taken the elevator, which is a stupid thing when there is about to be a fire. As we make our way to the ground floor we seem to switch roles several times from pursuing and being pursued- all I know is the rush of fear and excitement that means I will win.

In the parking lot I squint through the darkness, trying to discern my group of friends from the rest of the crowd. I determine I've got the right group, and out my arms around their shoulders, and turn my head back to the building- I can, now that I'm safe. Every window is dark, with the curtains open, and no sign of flame. I am surprised that everyone actually remembered the fire drill instructions from elementary school, forming a line and the last person out turning off the light. Still gazing at the building I say, "It's good that everyone made it out alright." I can hardly hear my own voice over the whistling wind.

At home, I prepare to go to an outdoor, middle-of-the-night dance. Our house feels huge and empty, and while it is well-lit, the darkness and cold press in. My mom is especially excited for me, running around with the camera like it's prom. She wants me to look nice, but I just want to be warm. I can't seem to find enough clothes, because I left most of them at home, not expecting to go to some crazy dance. I gather it will involve some freeform skiing and dancing in a snow-covered water park-type setting, and I remind my mother, "You know I haven't skied in years. How am I suppposed to stand upright, let alone spin around in circles with someone while sliding downhill?" She says, "Prepare for lots of bruises!" My friends wait at the door, all ready to go. At the last minute I decide I can't wear a windbreaker to a formal dance, and my shoes don't match my outfit.

I stand just below that exit ramp coming off of the West Seattle Brigde onto 99 that curves so sharply that you always end up squished next to the person next to you on the 120 to downtown. Part of it has disconnected, so that the ramp does not meet the freeway. Kris is up there on his bicycle, perched on the edge of the freeway, doing some odd maneuvers as a part of race. I wonder why he would do something like that to his bike. In a few seconds he is done and comes down to the basement of my house, located just under the ramp. We gather in the laundry room with Beth and Kellen. My mom bustles around doing laundry, she immediately gets them all engaged reading old Balderdash responses. Kris also shows them his latest project: his front wheel that he has begun threading with fine silver wire. It looks more like a sculpture, with an uneven web that bends the flimsy gold-foiled frame.
Determined to finally give Kris back his shirt, I tap him on the shoulder, but alas, I don't have the shirt with me. I do, however, tell him that I have something else from my dad that he might be interested in. I squeeze past my mom to get to a giant spool on the table and pull off a few pieces of the thick wire. I show Kris and his face lights up. "Copper wire!" he exclaims, as if it was just the breakthrough he needed to make the piece complete.
We all squeeze on to the piano bench and play fragments of pieces we remember from our childhood lessons.