I was quickly joined on the front lawn by everyone I knew and a number of people I couldn’t recall having seen before.
Everyone was there except for Mrs. Miller, an elderly woman who lived across the hall from me, one apartment down.
I had knocked on her door and shouted a warning about the fire.
“Thanks, Paul,” she yelled.
Now, five minutes later, she was still yelling—screaming, actually—with her voice ringing out from the open window of her now-smoke-filled apartment.
“Harold!” she screamed. “Where are you, Harold! Come to Mama! Please, Harold! I can’t see you so you’ve got to come to me!”
When the first fire truck arrived, I grabbed one of the crew and told them that Mrs. Miller was still inside Apartment 2-D.
Flames were now visible in her window.
“Harold!” she shrieked.
If she said or shouted anything else it must have gotten lost in the growling, crackling roar of the flames because I never heard her voice again.
As I watched my apartment turn to ash, I felt something rub against my ankle.
“Why, hello, Harold,” I said, as I picked up the trembling cat and held him as close to my chest as he would allow.
Like I said, I never wanted to be a hero, but when I salvaged what little I could from my charred unit and moved into a new apartment down the street, I took Harold with me—even though my lease doesn’t allow pets in the building.
I couldn’t bring myself to give Mrs. Miller’s beloved cat to the animal shelter.
Keeping him was the least I could do.
But don’t get the wrong idea.
If a fire breaks out in my new apartment building, Harold will have to fend for himself.