It was the middle of winter, in the days just past Christmas, about 23 years ago, and my boyfriend Steve and I had hitchhiked from Massachusetts up to his family's house in the country near Burlington, Vermont. We were staying in the attic, where all of his belongings were. One day, when we were alone at home, sitting at the kitchen table for a late breakfast, we noticed smoke. The attic above us was on fire. We tried to call the fire department, but the phone line ran through the attic and was burned off already. Steve found a ladder outside and leaned it up under the attic window, and turned on the garden hose. He told me to run down the road to a neighbor's house and call the fire department. I took off and ran the half kilometer to the nearest neighbor and rang the door bell. There was no one home. I tried the door, and it worked to open, so I went in and called. I went out again and ran back up the road to Steve. He was up on the ladder spraying water in through the window he'd broken. A few minutes later the fire engines came, and Steve climbed down to me, a bit burnt, very black and sooty, and coughing. We couldn't do anything more, and were not allowed near the house by the firemen, so we hurried back down the road to the neighbors house to call Steve's dad at work and to wash up. When we got to the house, we tried the door. It was locked. We couldn't get in. We walked the quarter kilometer further to the next house, but no one was home there either. There were no more houses for four or five kilometers after that. We turned back towards home, but were picked up by Steve's dad who'd heard about the fire on the radio and understood that it was his house. When we got back to the house the fire was under control. The firemen said that if they'd gotten there a few minutes later the entire house would have burned down. The only reason it hadn't, it turned out, was that by PURE LUCK the neighbors hadn't pulled the door shut well enough that morning so that the automatic lock snapped into place. I had pulled it shut as I left.
Everything Steve owned was destroyed in that fire, and all that I had with me except for my swiss army knife, which was a present from Steve. It had lain on the floor, and the red plastic on the top had melted a bit and become charred, but had retained its shape. I have it on the desk in front of me right now. Anyone who visits me may see it.
