[ WP ] You 're surrounded by fire in a building , you 've just fired your gun . What happened ?

My best friend in elementary school had severe pollen allergies, and, to the constant dismay of Stephie, our lunch tables stood under the shadow of a trio of magnolias. I can still pick out a pedestrian across the street and tell you if he has a cold or hay fever—the nuance lies in the level of resignation in his red-rimmed, watery eyes. 
 
 A man with a cold feels as if the ache behind his eyes, the skin rubbed raw around his nose is slowly killing him. He feels sluggish, half of his usual self. A man with allergies is done dealing with self-pity and symptoms. He feels ill, but he feels whole. 
 
 Stephie always said that the discomfort of a perpetual runny nose pales in comparison to the dark occasions she jolts into consciousness unable to draw in breath. Those nights, a brief terror grips her lungs so fiercely until she opens her mouth, heaving. She said these nights fortunately occur far less frequently than the nights in which she merely awakens two hours before her alarm, mouth dry and lips cracked. 
 
 My lips are cracked. I am kneeling, but even when I try opening my mouth, I can not draw in oxygen. The smoke is not the culprit—not yet. 
 
 The new intern—his blood is on my skirt. I think his name is David. An hour ago, he brought me evidence boxes. Ten minutes ago, he said he thinks his legs are crushed. I didn ’ t tell him he would be okay because half of him is under a support beam. He ’ s moaning now. If there are sirens, I can not hear them over David ’ s voice, the roar of hot air, the cracking of wood and metal. I can ’ t tell if the floor is still trembling, or if I am. 
 
 The grip of my Glock is warm. He ’ s looking at me with eyes like Stephie ’ s. Like her eyes when we ate our ham and cheese sandwiches on those rickety benches, white petals the size of our tiny fists snowing down upon us like ash. 

