Burn Our Relationship to a Crisp

Saturday rolled around, and as usual, I bought some groceries and headed over to visit my mother-in-law, Margaret Flint.

But the moment I entered her apartment complex, I saw a thick black smoke billowing up. My heart lurched, and I dashed toward her building. A crowd had already gathered outside.

Her neighbor, Mrs. Zeller, spotted me and grabbed my arm. "Oh, my goodness, Margaret's still inside! Hurry and call Joshua so he can bring his crew to put out the fire!"

I watched the flames blaze out of control, my heart pounding with worry.

My husband, Joshua Scott, was the captain of the local fire department. He'd definitely rush over if he knew Margaret was in danger.

I tried calling him several times, but he never picked up. With no other choice, I dialed 911, urging them to come put out the fire as quickly as possible.

The fire grew stronger by the second. I pulled out my phone, switched on the camera, and zoomed in on the balcony, trying to see what was happening inside.

I spotted a figure who seemed to be climbing over the railing, about to jump. When I looked closer, I realized it was Margaret.

She lived on the 17th floor. She couldn't possibly survive a jump from there.

Cold sweat broke out all over me, and I shouted at the top of my lungs, "Don't jump, Margaret! The fire department is coming!"

I wasn't sure if she heard me, but she stopped trying to climb over and crouched in a corner, shielding her head with her arms.

I was so desperate that I could feel tears coming. I called Joshua again—this time, at least a dozen times.

Finally, he answered, sounding pretty irritated. "Ruby, what's your problem? Can't this wait? I'm busy—Sophie's pipes busted, and there's water everywhere. I'm trying to fix it. I'll call you back!"