Extinguish

A man taps me on the shoulder and gestures for me to follow him down the hall to a room with an unlocked door. He enters and points to a woman, legs bare, sitting wrapped in a blanket on a recliner. All I have left is here, she says, and I shit my pants, pointing to a spoiled bundle on the floor. She ran out of her burning apartment building with jacket, pants, and boots even though a heart condition makes it difficult, nearly impossible, for her to go anywhere fast or far. She lives in this state, this place, without family, having moved here for love decades ago and then later divorced, no children. I'm a retired social worker used to helping others and here I am needing help, she says. Even so, she smiles, spirit high. The man manages the building where both of them live. His apartment, unstained from the fire, offers refuge for this woman who has become a friend. He often drives her, and others without transportation, to buy groceries and pick up prescription medications. They offer all of this information to me even before I explain my role as a storyteller, or really a story-capturer, that provides immediate relief for no one but me.