Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 78634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78634 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
I hurried around the kitchen island and grabbed him in a hug as I whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” he said. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”
The next morning, we woke up to gray skies and a lot of rain. Even so, Bryson was out of the house before nine again, with another long list of properties to see with the real estate agent.
I was still in a funk, so I hid in bed for a while before finally making myself get up and face the day. The first thing I had to do was make some decisions about my website. The designer had sent me three very different mockups, and I had no idea which one I should choose.
After spending a couple of hours on the internet looking at the websites of similar businesses, I still didn’t have an answer. I emailed the designer and told her I’d get back to her next week. Not that I thought I’d figure it out by then, but at least I didn’t have to worry about it right this minute.
The other item on my to-do list was to bake a birthday cake for my neighbors across the street, which they were expecting the next day. I took a shower and got dressed, and then I found an umbrella and walked to the nearest market for some ingredients.
Dusty greeted me excitedly when I got home, and I took some time to pet him and let him out before turning my attention to the birthday cake. It was for a little girl who was turning seven. Her moms had requested pastel colors and a donut theme, because that was her favorite treat. I thought they should have just bought some donuts and stuck candles in them, but this was what they wanted, and they were paying me to make it.
I’d drawn some different ideas for the cake ahead of time, and I put my open sketchbook on the kitchen counter and got to work. The cake itself was the easy part. I got it in the oven and turned my attention to the donuts.
Even though I’d never made them before, I’d seen it done plenty of times on cooking shows, so I thought I knew what I was doing. The plan was to make them as small as possible, frost and decorate them, and then use them as a border around both tiers of the cake.
I rolled out the dough, but it was too soft and sticky, and the circles I cut weren’t holding their shape. I ended up remixing it and trying again, forgetting about everything else, including the cake in the oven and the big pot of oil I’d put on the stove to heat up.
A few minutes later, everything went horribly wrong.
The cakes began to burn, which set off the smoke alarm. Dusty leapt up and started barking at the loud noise, and I grabbed a dish towel and used it to pull the scorched cakes from the oven. I ended up burning one of my hands on a hot cake pan, so I hurried to the sink and held my hand under cold water, coughing as the kitchen filled with smoke.
Most of that smoke wasn’t from the cakes. I didn’t realize that until the oil on the stove burst into flames. I quickly turned off the heat and tried to move the pot off the burner, but I yelped in pain as burning oil sloshed onto my hand. Some also spilled onto the counter, igniting my sketchbook and sending flames shooting upwards, toward the cabinets.
I cried out in terror, flashing back to when I was three and got burned by that campfire. My eyes stung, and I couldn’t stop coughing. I knew I should get out of there, but if I didn’t do something the whole house would burn down.
I had to think. I had to fix this. What did you do to put out a grease fire? It wasn’t water, that much I knew.
It was so smoky, and the alarm was painfully loud. I dropped to my knees, coughs racking my body, and I started to cry. Oh god, this was bad. Really, really bad.
In the next instant, someone picked me up. I looked up and realized Bryson was carrying me. “I’m sorry,” I rasped, between my coughs and sobs. “I’m so sorry.”
He paused long enough to scoop up Dusty, and then he ran out the front door with us and put us on the sidewalk. I clutched my dog to my chest as tears streamed down my cheeks. Bryson crouched down and took my face between his hands as he asked me, “Are you okay, Embry?”
I nodded, but then I doubled over in a coughing fit. Toshiko from across the street appeared and told Bryson, “I called 911 when I heard the smoke alarm. They’ll be here soon. I’m a doctor, and he may be suffering from smoke inhalation.” She knelt down beside me and said, “Try to stay calm, Embry. Help is on the way.” I tried to reply but started coughing again.