“Balcony’s completely cut off from the interior!” the second firefighter yelled over the roar, throwing his arm up to shield his mask. “Command, Engine 14 inside 4B. The unit is fully involved. Interior rescue to the balcony is a negative. I repeat, interior is a negative! You need to get the bucket up there now!”
“They’re going to burn!” I shrieked, lunging toward the open door.
The first firefighter caught me around the waist, lifting me entirely off the ground. “They’re raising the ladder outside right now!” he yelled over my shoulder, carrying me bodily toward the stairwell. “I’ve got you, ma’am! We’re getting you out!”
I kicked and thrashed, my boots connecting with his heavy protective gear, but it was useless. He hauled me down the concrete stairs, bursting through the thick smoke of the third floor, then the second.
By the time he kicked open the shattered glass door of the main lobby, my vision was swimming from the smoke inhalation. He set me down on the grass just beyond the front entrance, immediately waving over two paramedics who were rushing toward the building with a stretcher.
“Get a mask on her, she’s inhaled a lot of particulates!” the firefighter ordered before turning and sprinting back into the blazing building.
“Ma’am, sit down,” a paramedic said, grabbing my shoulders.
“Don’t touch me!” I shoved him away, my eyes frantically searching the chaotic courtyard.
Engine 42 had smashed entirely through the chained front gates of the apartment complex, its massive red chassis tearing the iron bars from their brick pillars. The massive ladder truck was positioned directly below my apartment. Firefighters were screaming orders, pulling thick canvas supply lines across the asphalt, but my eyes were locked on the silver ladder rapidly extending upward through the choking black smoke.
I looked up at the fourth floor.
The fire was now visibly licking the edges of the metal railing. And Leo was failing.
I could see it from the ground. His posture was completely broken. His torso was slumped over the top bar, his feet no longer braced against the bottom rung. He was slipping forward, his small body inching dangerously close to the drop. His arms were fully locked, but the violent shaking had stopped. His muscles were simply giving out.
Below him, Mia was still dangling, her small legs no longer kicking. She was hanging perfectly still, her face tipped upward, entirely dependent on a grip that was dissolving by the second.
“Leo!” I screamed, tearing away from the paramedic and running toward the ladder truck.
The crowd of neighbors was pressed against the far perimeter fence, kept back by a line of police officers. They weren’t filming anymore. Mrs. Gable was weeping openly, her hands clamped over her mouth. The teenager who had defended me was standing on top of a picnic table, shouting encouragement upward, completely horrified by the reality of the situation.
The bucket at the top of the ladder reached the fourth floor. A firefighter leaned out over the edge, reaching through the thick, toxic smoke.
“I got her! I got her, son, let go!” the firefighter’s voice boomed down from the bucket, amplified by a megaphone.
From forty feet below, I watched my son’s head slowly shake. Even now, half-unconscious, his brain refusing oxygen, he wouldn’t let go of his sister. He didn’t trust the voice in the smoke. He was going to hold her until his bones snapped.
The firefighter didn’t wait. He leaned his entire upper body out of the bucket, wrapping his thick, Kevlar-clad arms securely around Mia’s waist.
“I have her!” the firefighter shouted. “Release!”
Leo’s fingers finally uncurled.
Mia dropped two inches into the safe, secure grasp of the rescue worker. The firefighter instantly pulled her small body backward, depositing her safely into the metal basket of the ladder.
But the sudden release of tension completely destroyed Leo’s center of gravity.
With his sister’s counterweight gone, Leo’s upper body pitched backward toward the raging inferno of the living room. His legs gave out.
“LEO!” I shrieked, my voice tearing.
The second firefighter in the bucket moved with terrifying speed. He lunged out over the railing, his gloved hand violently clamping down on the hood of Leo’s sweatshirt just as my son collapsed backward.
The heavy fabric pulled taut against Leo’s neck. The firefighter braced his boots against the side of the bucket, let out a massive grunt of exertion, and physically hauled my ten-year-old son over the rusted iron railing, dragging him out of the fire and tossing him into the bottom of the rescue basket.
The crowd in the courtyard erupted. It wasn’t the vicious, bloodthirsty cheering from twenty minutes ago. It was a massive, collective roar of absolute relief. People were sobbing, hugging each other, screaming my son’s name in pure awe.
The ladder immediately began to retract, smoothly lowering the basket away from the blistering heat of the fourth floor.
I didn’t wait for them to reach the ground. I ducked under the yellow fire line tape, sprinting across the courtyard toward the truck. The paramedics were right behind me.
The moment the basket touched the asphalt, I threw myself over the side of the metal railing.