Brian knows fear. He knows it has a taste. He’d spent much of his early childhood in perpetual fear of Jack’s fists and the staccato of violence that were their blows. When Justin was bashed, Brian learned that fear also has a smell – the sour tang of old sweat mixed with Clorox and bad, watery coffee. The reek of hospitals and their last moments. The stale scent of waiting for bad news.



It is that smell – the smell of fear – that overwhelms his senses when he hears the news on the radio – the news about the bomb, the announcer’s voice suddenly talking about the intimate fact that, with the exception of his son, everyone that Brian loves had been in that room. Everyone. Justin, Lindsay, Michael, Ted, Deb, Emmett, Jennifer, Ben, Daphne – and, yes, Mel. How horrible, he thinks as the car speeds down Interstate 376 back towards Pittsburgh, how horrible that he can only admit he cares about someone after they’re dead . . . that he can only admit he loves someone after they’re forever gone.



Little, trivial things seem all important in moments like this – like the fact the car in front of them has a broken taillight. Like the fact the driver has hairy knuckles. It’s the brain protecting it from itself by clinging to the mundane. Brian places his hands on his thighs and curls his fingers into claws as though that might make a difference, as though the highway could stretch like a sling shot rubber band and catapult the car straight into the heart of the Liberty Ave district. They need to get there now. Before it’s too late. Before all the reasons why he should lose the people he loves – the man he loves – can catch up with him.



Pleasedon’tletanythinghappentohim pleasedon’tletanythinghappentohim pleasedon’tletanythinghappentohim pleasedon’tletanythinghappentohim pleasedon’tletanythinghappentohim pleasedon’tletanythinghappentohim pleasedon’tletanythinghappentohim pleasedon’tletanythinghappentohim pleasedon’tletanythinghappentohim.



The words stumble over each other, jostling and shoving, fighting to lose their meanings in the midst of a crowd. He clenches his fingers tighter, leaving red crescent moons on his thighs as they barrel off the interstate and are swallowed by the intestinal ramp of the downtown exit. Every traffic light is red. Every pedestrian on the crosswalks is a fat, hobbling, old lady. He tips his head back and groans in agony – the agony of knowing he’s going to be too late.



Stanwix Street. Bakers Place. Eighth Street. Ninth Street. Tenth Street. The McCullough Bridge. He knows them all, but yet he doesn’t. Has he ever been here before? The car comes to a stop. Is he here? Is this it? It must be because he has to duck under police tape crisscrossed between lampposts like a giant, yellow spider’s web.



The scene is chaotic. Rubble and soot. Sirens and screams. Greasy smoke and melted plastic. Flashing lights and bloody bandages. He remembers little except Jennifer’s voice saying that Justin is still inside – still inside that burning, collapsing building. A place of fairytales that had become a house of horrors. A playground turned into a graveyard. His fault his fault his fault his fault his fault his fault. He can barely see. His eyes burn. The smell of Sulphur makes him gag. Glass crunches under his feet. Here and there a shoe, a jacket, something that might be . . . but he can’t look. He can’t look he can’t look he can’t look. People are dead. People are dying. People are screaming names – “Jonathan!” “Harry!” “Brenda!” “Roxy!” “Chris!” Brian adds his cries to the wailing chorus – “Justin! Justin! Justin!” – over and over until he’s hoarse.



There’s no reply.



If Justin . . . but he can’t stop to think. Not now while there’s still a chance, while there’s still something he can do. He staggers against what’s left of the bar, and when he pulls away, his hand is wet. At first he thinks it’s blood but then realizes it’s whiskey. The sweet scent of past oblivions washes over him . . . how many years off his life would he give if this wasn’t happening? Five? Ten? Fifteen? Twenty? Someone on the floor scrabbles at his ankle. Someone else calls out his name. It’s not a voice he recognizes, so he doesn’t stop. Firemen shove past, some with shouted warnings on their blackened lips. He stumbles over a hose, but catches himself on a beam. Just barely. All the while death lurks in the shadow of flames, biding its time. Patient and hungry. Hungry for the man Brian loves. The man he carelessly let slip through his fingers.



He makes crazy promises as he runs. He will never do this or that again. He will never not do this or that again. He’ll never say that or do that or even think this or that again. If only . . . just this one wish . . . please . . . everything will be different from now on. He doesn’t know what or how, but it will be. It has to be because this is his fault his fault his fault . . .



Then suddenly Brian sees him and grabs his arm, pulling him close, alarmed by the blood on his temple. Brian is no longer human. He’s an animal that’s found its young, and is now bearing its teeth at approaching danger, raw, open, furious. He only barely stops himself from licking the blood and soot from Justin’s face, cleaning him, feeling Justin’s pulse under his tongue – the mad pounding of it. The life thudding thudding thudding in his veins. Life. Life. Justin is alive.



Justin is alive.



But Justin’s not out yet – and neither is Emmett. Brian grabs both men by their wrists and starts tugging and pulling and running toward the exit, pausing only for a second when one of them stumbles. He’s ready to carry both of them on his back if he needs to. He slips on a nauseating combination of blood and broken glass and nearly falls. Only adrenaline keeps him on his feet, keeps him plunging forward into the smoke, into the heat of the encroaching fire. It’s not until they’re outside that Brian releases them. Justin runs to Jennifer, and Emmett runs to Drew, and Brian collapses to his knees, bruising them on the pavement. Someone rubs his back while he gets violently sick. He doesn’t know who.



Later . . . later he’ll tell Justin that he loves him. That he has always loved him. That life is meaningless without him. But in the meantime he rests for a moment, shaking, with blood and vomit on his jacket and his face buried in his soot-black hands.