{ 2 bars + 3 stars }

Harvard Hall Apts., 2-23-09 (circa 2:30 a.m.)

It’s a little after 2 a.m.  E. and I are sound asleep, then startled awake.  Our neighbor, a close friend, is pounding on the front door of our Adams Morgan apartment, alerting us to a fire raging down the hall.  I open the front door.  The hallway is filled with thick, gray smoke but no alarm can be heard.  I call 9-1-1.  We quickly dress, grab our cat by the scruff of his neck, and run toward the fire, through the thickening smoke, to the only way out of the building we can reach.  This is a very frightening moment, though I feel as calm as if I were still sleeping.

In the lobby, a badly burned woman talks to someone; she strikes me as obviously in shock.  Firefighters are already on the scene: at least a half-dozen vehicles are out front and a couple dozen firefighters race up the stairwell.  We dump the cat inside our car parked across the street, then we mill about in disbelief among our shivering neighbors.

An hour or so passes, and finally it’s safe to go back inside.  A pile of firefighting equipment sits inside the lobby, pools of standing water underfoot, more questions than answers in the air.  A kind women offering mugs of hot tea makes the rounds.  I say no thanks.  A few minutes pass, and residents of the first three floors are allowed up.  Then floors five, six, and seven.  Then our floor.  We walk up the stairs, pass more firefighters, thank them sincerely for saving our property.  We walk past the apartment where the fire started, in order to get to our apartment.  I peer inside.  Firefighters are still assessing the damage.  There is blackness and wetness and a horrible, acrid smell.

Inside our apartment, we open wide all the windows and lay in bed until six, struggling to keep warm.  Then I fall asleep for an hour or two, half believing it was all a nightmare.