The Radio's Midnight Warning

I lifted the loose cord from the floor and clenched its worn insulation. The whole thing felt rigged. If I stayed still, Helen would die in flames. If I tried to save her, something might simply find another way to take her—and wipe her out of my past.

A vibration in my pocket jolted me out of my stupor.

I brought out my phone. Its light burned against the basement gloom. Helen had sent a message.

David, I know it’s late. The police told me about Mark. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m on my way to your place now. You shouldn’t have to be by yourself.

I read the words again, scarcely breathing.

She wasn’t tucked into her Elm Street house. She was headed here already. The radio had said she would die in her bedroom at 2:15, but that couldn’t be right if she wasn’t there.

Unless I had misunderstood where the fire would happen.

I lifted my face and drew in a cautious breath. The basement smelled of damp cement and dust, but something sharp threaded through it. Gas.

The rotten-egg stench thickened as I inhaled again. There was no mistaking it. Natural gas.

I stood motionless, my phone shining in my hand, as the pieces locked together. Helen had left Elm Street and was driving to comfort me. The broadcast had named a house fire at 2:15. It had never promised the house would be hers.

My house was the one that would burn. And Helen was coming straight to it.

Fear crushed the air from my chest. I jammed the phone away and rushed across the basement to the utility nook. Dad’s old place had a huge, ancient furnace hidden behind a rough plywood partition in the far corner.

I yanked the makeshift door aside. Gas shrieked into the room, a sustained hiss that seemed to fill every inch of it.

I switched on the phone’s flashlight. Its beam found a thick iron pipe, black with age, feeding the furnace. The shutoff had been wrenched wide open. The lock meant to keep it secure was snapped apart.

Then I saw what rested on the floor below the pipe, and my blood seemed to stop.

A weighty crescent wrench lay on the concrete, its surface furred with rust. I knew it: I’d knocked that very tool off Dad’s workbench earlier. The bench was on the other side of the basement, a good thirty feet away. It couldn’t have skated here. Someone—or something—had carried it over and used it to wrench open the valve.

I dropped to my knees, choking on the fumes, and seized the red handle. I leaned into it with everything I had. The metal resisted, then scraped my knuckles raw before the valve finally turned crosswise and held.

The hissing ceased at once.

I got upright, gasping, with my lungs stinging. Shutting the line didn’t make us safe. Gas was still trapped in the house, waiting for one spark—a switch, a static snap, even the bell at the door—to send the place skyward.

Headlights washed across the lawn through the little window over me.

Helen had arrived.

I raced up the wooden steps, skipping two at a time, careful not to touch a switch. I tore through the kitchen, opened the front door, and ran out as her beige car eased into the driveway.

I charged down the steps, flinging my arms out. “Stay in the car!” I yelled, my voice breaking in the chill. “Helen, don’t get out!”

She lowered the window. Her tired face looked washed pale, her features creased with strain. A heavy wool coat covered her flowered nightdress, and her gray hair was pinned back in a hurry. She seemed terribly frail. Losing Mark had already carved grief into the lines around her eyes.

“David?” Her voice wavered. “What happened, honey? Why are you shouting?”

I reached inside and pulled the keys from the ignition, stopping the engine. My hands shook so hard that the keys clattered against the steering column.

“The house is full of leaking gas,” I panted, bracing myself against the cold car door. “If you’d rung the bell, this whole place could have exploded. You have to leave. Don’t stay here.”

Her eyes widened. “Gas? You need to call the fire department. You can’t remain inside, either.”

“I shut off the main valve,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I believed my own reassurance. I forced my voice to stay level. “Please, just go.”

She stayed where she was. Her gaze dropped to my torn, bloodied knuckles, then rose to meet mine. Helen knew me too well; she’d helped raise me after my mother died. She could see fear in my face—and understand that a gas leak wasn’t the only thing frightening me. Helen looked at me, certain I was hiding the real reason for my terror.