I close my eyes against the smoke.

I take a breath, sucking it in until I start to cough. Rough, heaving ones that make my body convulse.

Dizzy from the smoke, I experience a jolting moment during which I have no idea where I am, why I’m here, what the fuck I was just doing. But then I hear a bark behind me and I whirl around, spotting a familiar shape hurtling through the smoke.

Rufus.

Panicked and lost.

Him and me both.

Blindly, I drop to the floor again and lurch forward before he can zip past me. I then pull him into my arms, Rufus barking and struggling and pawing my chest in agitation. Rather than crawl back to the elevator, I inch forward on my behind, scooting awkwardly until I reach it. Carefully, I drop the three feet back into the cage and, clutching Rufus in one hand, slam the grate shut with the other. Beside me, Greta shoots me a startled, fearful look before hitting the down button.

Lower we go, into the bottom half of the Bartholomew, the smoke getting lighter the farther we descend. By the time we reach the lobby, it’s been reduced to a light haze. That doesn’t stop me from coughing. Or wheezing when I’m not coughing.

Greta stays quiet, unwilling to look at me. God, she must think I’m insane. I’d think the same thing if I didn’t know the reasons behind my recklessness.

As we leave the elevator and make our way across the lobby, we encounter a trio of EMTs on their way into the building. With them is a stretcher, its wheeled legs folded. One of them looks my way, a question in her eyes.

I manage a nod. One that says, We’re okay.

They move on, heading up the stairs. We go in the other direction, following the hoses that stretch from the front door. Me and Greta and Rufus. All of us cradled together as we step outside to a street painted red by the siren lights of two fire trucks and an ambulance stopped at the curb. The block itself has been closed to traffic, allowing people, many of them members of the media, to gather in the middle of Central Park West.

As soon as we hit the sidewalk, reporters push forward.

Camera lights swing our way, blindingly bright.

A dozen flashbulbs pop like firecrackers.

A reporter shouts a question that I can’t hear because the fire alarm has set my ears ringing.

Rufus, as irritated as I am, barks. This draws Marianne Duncan out of the milling crowd. She’s dressed like Norma Desmond. Flowing caftan, turban, cat’s-eye sunglasses. Her face is smeared with cold cream.

“Rufus?”

She rushes toward me and lifts Rufus from my arms.

“My baby! I was so worried about you.” To me, she says, “The alarm was going off and there was smoke and Rufus got spooked and jumped out of my arms. I wanted to look for him, but a fireman told me I had to keep moving.”

She’s started to cry. Streaks appear in the cold cream, plowed by tears.

“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you, thank you!”

I can only muster a nod. I’m too dazed by the sirens and the flashbulbs and the smoke that continues to roll like a storm cloud in my lungs.

I leave Greta with Marianne and gently push my way through the crowd. It’s easy to differentiate residents of the Bartholomew from the onlookers. They’re the ones in their nightclothes. I spot Dylan in just a pair of pajama bottoms and sneakers, looking impervious to the cold. Leslie Evelyn wears a black kimono, which swishes gracefully as she and Nick do a head count of residents.

When EMTs emerge with Mr. Leonard strapped to the stretcher and his face covered by an oxygen mask, the crowd breaks into applause. Upon hearing them, Mr. Leonard gives a weak thumbs-up.

By then I’m pulling away from the crowd, on the other side of Central Park West. I walk north a block, putting more distance between me and the Bartholomew. I drop onto a bench and sit with my back to the stone wall bordering Central Park.

I cough one last time.

Then I allow myself to weep.

NOW

Dr. Wagner looks surprised, and rightly so. His expression is similar to his voice—passivity masking alarm.

“Escaped?”

“That’s what I said.”

I don’t mean to be this standoffish. Dr. Wagner has done nothing wrong. But I’m not ready to trust anyone at the moment. A by-product of living at the Bartholomew for a few days.

“I want to talk to the police,” I say. “And Chloe.”

“Chloe?”

“My best friend.”

“We can call her,” Dr. Wagner says. “Do you have her number?”

“On my phone.”

“I’ll have Bernard look through your things and find the number.”

I let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you.”

“I’m curious,” the doctor says. “How long did you live at the Bartholomew?”

I like the doctor’s word choice. Past tense.

“Five days.”

“And you felt like you were in danger there?”

“Not at first. But yes. Eventually.”

I look to the wall behind Dr. Wagner, at the askew Monet. I’ve seen the painting before, although I can’t remember what it’s called. Probably Blue Bridge Over Waterlilies, because that’s what it depicts. It’s pretty. From my position on the bed, I can see the curve of the bridge as it arcs over the lily pads and blooms in the water below. But I know that looking at it from another viewpoint would yield a vastly different result. The lines of the bridge wouldn’t look quite so clean. The lilies would widen into indistinct splotches of paint. If I were to get up close, the painting would probably look downright ugly.