I shook my head. �Maybe I should just go to bed,� I said. At that moment, I stood up and made my way to the stairs, then up the stairs, and into the upstairs hallway. I opened the door of the hall closet and took out the fluffiest towel I owned. �Shower, and the bed,� I muttered. That was indeed how it went. I took a very quick shower (during which my eyes began to close again), dressed, and went to bed. I fell asleep immediately. In my dream, I heard things. Sirens, I believe. Nothing but sirens, wailing at nothing, fading into nothing, and then-
I awoke with a start. Immediately, I got up and went downstairs. Upon my arrival, I looked around to see if anything was out of place. My search concluded with my eyes falling upon the piece of paper on the coffee table. I gasped and moved over to it, seizing it in my hand. It was blank no more. Now, it appeared to be a newspaper clipping. I read the headline. It stated, �Local woman loses life in blaze�. I began to read the article:
�Yesterday evening, a fire broke out at 77 Monument Street, claiming the life
of Doris Martin. Martin, 52, was the house�s owner and sole resident.�
I stopped, staring blankly at the words. 77 Monument Street-that was my house. And Doris Martin-that was my name.
�What?� I stammered. �What does this mean?� Then I saw the age. 52, I thought. But I�m 54. This can�t be me.
Dazed, I happened upon the date of the newspaper article, up in the top left-hand corner. August 2, 1998, it stated. That was two years ago-today.
I was shaking. My eyes were wide. It made no sense. I forced myself to keep reading, but I couldn�t focus. That is, until one passage caught my eye.
�Fire engines were dispatched to the scene at 8:04 pm after people on nearby
streets reported seeing smoke. However, they were unable to stop the blaze.
Monument Street, which is all forest except for the house in question, has no
fire hydrants. The fire fighters were already too late to save Ms. Martin.�
The rest of the article was a blur, right down to the last line: �She had no living relatives.�
�What is this?� I didn�t realize I was practically screaming. �How can this be true?� In a fleeting moment of rational thought, a line from the article floated through my mind: �Monument Street has no fire hydrants.�
�It�s wrong!� I was still screaming. �There�s a fire hydrant right outside and-�
I practically ran to the door, unlocked it, and threw it open. There was no fire hydrant.
�How-� I ran outside to the spot where the hydrant should have been. �But it was just here yesterday, and it always was!� I cried. Then, I looked up. Outside every pale yellow house stood a person, something that hadn�t happened in the two years since the houses had been built. The two years�
I looked closer at the person outside the house across the street. She made eye contact with me and smiled. I knew this woman, it was�
�Mom?� I said in a shaky voice. Then, the house next to it-�Grandma? Grandpa?� Next to that-�Aunt Sara?�
The paper fell from my shaky hand as the sound of sirens filled my head. The sirens-the last sound I had ever heard.
