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No answer.
It’s Sunday.
He keeps crazy hours, makes house calls at all hours of the day, but he doesn’t usually work on the day of the Lord, as Aunt Martha used to call it. I bang against the door and call out.
“Uncle Pete? Are you home?”
I should call again, but in the excitement of last night, I forgot to charge my phone. Henry was kind enough to let me borrow his, but I won’t be calling anyone until mine’s recharged. The poor thing was at five percent when my ordeal in the snow began. It’s way past dead now and needs a deep recharge.
Where’s my uncle?
Something acrid tickles my nostrils. A burning smell, not wood, floats on the air. Something pungent. And it’s coming from inside.
I bang on the door, harder and more insistent this time.
Nothing.
Even though my aunt and uncle live in a small town, considered by many as one of the safest communities, Aunt Martha insisted on gardening for safety. That meant planting the thorniest bushes beneath every window to keep burglars out.
I climb over a holly bush, desperate to peek through the window because whatever is burning is coming from inside.
Barbs of pointed stems and holly leaves poke through my jeans and scratch my skin. I bite back a squeal as a thorny branch slices my upper arm.
The kitchen window perches a tad too high. I grip the windowsill and leverage myself up by bracing against the trunk of the offending bush. Branches break. I fall.
I scurry up again.
Peering into the house, thick black smoke curls up from a skillet on the stove. Bacon grease and the putrid smell of burned eggs creates the horrendous smell.
Where is Uncle Pete?
I twist left and right, trying to see inside.
There.
On the floor.
His feet poke out from the hallway.
I drop to the ground and race to the back door. My palm slams against the door.
“Uncle Pete!” My shrill cry rings out through the air.
The neighbor next door steps out onto her back porch. “What’s all the hollering about?”
I recognize Mrs. Leesum and run to her. “Mrs. Leesum, it’s me, Abigail Knight, Doctor Bateman’s niece. Something’s wrong. Can you call 9-1-1?”
“Is Doctor Bateman okay?” Mrs. Leesum’s face pales, and I clutch at my chest.
“I don’t know. Can you please call?”
Mrs. Leesum turns to duck back inside her house, but I call out. “Do you have a key?”
My aunt never believed in leaving a spare key outside. Too risky. Dangerous even. But maybe she gave a copy to the neighbors.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Leesum says. “Let me grab it.”
“Please, and then call 9-1-1.”
