Boys in the Valley(93)

60


THE ESCAPE IS A BLUR.

David pulls me free from the worst of the flames, back toward the far end of the dormitory where the ladder still hangs like a wooden tongue from the smoke-filled attic hatch.

After I fell through, they all made their way back down. David wrapped himself in the blanket of one of the few unburned cots and fought his way toward me, pulled me out of the worst of it.

He’s screaming something in my ear.

“The snow, Peter! It’ll break our fall. Trust me on this!”

I’m lifted to my feet as the whole world burns. The heat is unbearable. I can’t see, can’t breathe. Ahead of me is an empty square of roiling smoke and snowfall, a window completely smashed clear of glass. I watch in a daze as Byron hops on the sill, takes a last look back, then leaps.

“There’s a decent buildup right below this window! If we’re lucky, we’ll only break our legs!” He’s still yelling and pulling me through the smoke. I don’t know how he has the breath or the energy, I only know I am grateful.

“You first!” he says, and half lifts, half shoves me into the window frame.

I look down.

It’s a long drop. Twenty feet, give or take.

“Let your legs crumple when you hit, try to fall into snow so you don’t hit the ground, you know, too hard.”

At the open window, the cold air hits my face like a hard slap, and my breath goes out of me. From nearby, there is a flash of faces watching me anxiously, all of them eager to escape. I want to say something, to encourage them, but then I’m pushed from behind, and I fall into the night.

Once more I’m falling, not into fire this time, but toward earth.

Byron, the crazy fool, has his arms extended, as if he’s going to catch me.

Halfway down, I do David’s advice one better. I let my body go limp, turn to face the stars, and let my arms float out from my sides.

When I hit, there’s no pain.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m safe, or because I’m dead.





61


I’M DRAGGED AWAY FROM MY LANDING SPOT. ONCE released, I plop down into the snow on my rear, watch as David helps the last of the survivors out the window. Byron is admirably trying to build up as much snow as he can where he and I and a few others have already landed, fluffing it like a pillow. When he feels it’s good enough, he yells up at David, who pitches Finnegan out the window. Then Thomas, followed quickly by Timothy, who gives a mighty bellow as he leaps. I can’t help but smile at his bravery.

Finally, David jumps, and ironically is the only one injured, badly twisting an ankle.

Byron does the best he can wrapping a ripped sheet around my waist, pressing my wound, tying it so tight I can hardly take a deep breath. But the pain subsides, as does the blood loss.

“Can you walk?” David asks while he helps me up. He looks at my stomach—a place I’ve avoided looking since Byron patched me up—then back to my face.

“I can walk,” I say, not knowing if it’s the truth, but also knowing there’s no other option.

I won’t die here.

“Can you?” I ask.

He laughs, puts an arm through mine to steady me. “A hundred miles if necessary,” he says, and I believe him.

The five of us who remain walk a safe distance from the orphanage, then up a gentle rise, before turning back to watch St. Vincent’s consumed by fire.

To watch our childhood burn. For me, a second time.

It’s cold, but not as bad as I would have thought. The snowfall has lightened, and the wind, though strong, is not unbearable.

David stands next to me as I lean against the bark of a leafless tree. The trees on the rise are far enough away from the fire to live another season. To live a hundred more seasons.

“That place,” he says, and leans his back against the tree, his shoulder pressed to mine. “That was my hell.”

I look at him, see his orange-lit profile as he watches—with what I would swear is pleasure—as the orphanage burns.

The fire is strong enough that, even from a distance, the heat is intense. The marauding flames reach high into the night sky, the rising smoke erasing the field of stars. The blaze appears to me as a giant hand reaching upward, pointing toward the heavens in a final rebuke. Or, possibly, a promise. A vow to one day return.

We can’t help ourselves. We stay and watch for what feels an eternity. We watch until the giant, accusatory hand becomes nothing but burning wood. A wall collapses inward, and soon the entire roof follows.

We’ve seen enough.

“We need to go,” I say, hoping David doesn’t register the fear and pain in my voice.

David nods. His eyes flick to my stomach, then back to my face. “Okay, yeah. The farm?”

“I think so. It’ll be light soon, and I know the way. The storm has lessened, I think we can make it. Timothy may need to be carried at some point.”

“I can walk,” he grumbles, and is already stumbling forward through the snow. “Which way, Father?”

It takes me a moment to realize he’s referring to me.

Andrew, I can see you smiling at all of this.

I’m so sorry.

“East,” I say, and begin walking. My hand grips a bunched knot of Byron’s torn shirt, pressed firmly against my torn skin. I don’t think the bleeding has worsened, and for now my wits feel relatively clear.