Harrison crouched by the doorway, vomiting all over the floor, but he didn't forget to scream.
"It's all Libby's fault! She's roasting dead rats in her room! It stinks! It stinks so bad!"
Mom clamped a hand over his mouth, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Shh, sweetie, it's not rats. Your sister was just..."
She trailed off.
She didn't know how to spin it either.
The inspector from the Environmental Health Department was already walking toward my bedroom door, portable detector raised in front of him.
Beep-beep-beep-beep—
The detector's alarm spiked to a shrill wail. The numbers on the screen went haywire.
"Carbon monoxide levels are four hundred and seventy times above the safety threshold."
The inspector's voice cracked. He lurched back a step.
"At this concentration... anyone inside would be..."
He didn't finish the sentence.
Officer Lawrence's face drained of color.
"Mr. Chavez. This door has to be opened. Now."
Dad still had that reflexive smile hanging on the corner of his lips. He stepped in front of the door without thinking.
"Officer, it's really not that serious. Probably just a little girl's prank. My daughter has a temper. She locked herself in there two days ago, and I—"
"Mr. Chavez."
Lawrence cut him off.
"At this concentration of carbon monoxide, a person loses consciousness within ten minutes. It's been two days."
The hallway went silent.
Dad's smile dissolved. Mom covered her mouth with both hands.
The locksmith stepped out of the elevator right on cue, a power saw over one shoulder and a pry bar over the other.
He walked up to the door and studied the frame, sealed tight with expanding foam.
"What the hell happened to this door? Who did this?"
No one answered.
The saw roared to life. Layers of hardened foam were carved away strip by strip.
The lock cylinder snapped under brute force. The metal sheeting around the frame buckled and curled.
Mom stood behind Dad. Suddenly, she grabbed his sleeve.
"Honey, when you go in... don't yell at her."
"Tomorrow... tomorrow let's take her to that dessert place she loves. She said she wanted to try the red bean custard last time. I never got around to taking her..."
The locksmith's saw cut through the final layer of foam.
The door cracked open an inch.
A wave of black soot laced with a suffocating stench poured through the gap.
The locksmith stumbled back, hands clamped over his nose and mouth. The inspector dropped to his knees and dry-heaved. Lawrence pressed his sleeve against his face and shoved the door wide open.
The room was charred black.
Walls. Ceiling. Floor. Every surface the eye could reach was coated in a thick, greasy layer of black residue.
The cheap coal stove had burned out. Its walls had cracked apart, and a slurry of ash and dark water pooled across the ground in a congealed mess.
Shattered pieces of the oxygen concentrator lay scattered everywhere, plastic and metal components warped and melted beyond recognition.
Dad's gaze drifted to the twin bed.
The mattress had melted under the heat, warped and sagging, its springs exposed like bare ribs.
Fused to the surface of that melted mattress was a blackened, curled mass. Drawn up tight like a shrimp.
His eyes went wide. The crystal trophy slipped from his fingers, hit the floor, and shattered.
The gilded words Family of the Year ground into the black ash.
Dad's expression froze. Every trace of color bled from his face.
His mouth opened and closed. No sound came out. His legs buckled and he collapsed against the doorframe, knees hitting the ground.
The locksmith peered over his shoulder into the room.
A scream tore through the silence of the entire building.
He dropped the saw and bolted for the exit.
