across Baylor St.

Juliana ran from the door out to the street, not looking back at the brick building that slowly poured out black smoke, infinitely blacker and clearer than the night sky, which she also did not look at. Others running out of the building were shouting. "Fire!" "Help!" "There's no way this is happening." She shouted, too. "What about me? Whatever happened to your princess?" She ran across Baylor St., and kept running. Sirens and flashing lights invaded the neighborhood, mounted on a sickly, yellow fire truck. Still more people gathered on the street, escaping the fire, escaping sleep, escaping bland sex, escaping Johnny Carson. Firemen, buried in their pounds on pounds of life saving equipment, ran into the building, or off to the fire hydrant to set up the hose. Baylor St. knew the hose too well, and some residents decided it best to go back inside. Juliana kept running, past the buildings where lights were slowly turning on for the ruckus, past the red and blue strobes of the cruisers and trucks and ambulances. She ran and collapsed. She could not get up. Softly, her breath caressing the air that didn't smell like years being lost as kindling, she hoped this was new.