"What's your house number?"

At 11:37 a.m. on Friday, August 9, my house was filled with smoke. More than likely, a melted gas line was already causing a blow-torch effect that burned through our basement floor, charred our first floor hallway and caused our cat, Moe, to perish from smoke inhalation. 

At 11:37 a.m., my friend, the newspaper publisher, called me to ask my house number. 

"475."

"Your house is on fire."

***

Our son had been sleeping poorly through the night for the last several weeks. I rocked him back down at 10:30, 11, 2:30 and 4:15. At 5:15, my daughter called out. 

"Daddy?"

I woke up and trudged up the steps (the steps that the gas line would later render unsafe).

"My finger hurts."

After a kiss and my best act of persuasion since conning my wife into marriage, I went back downstairs. 

At 6:15, I woke up in my house as I know it for the last time. 

The morning was smooth: no tantrums, no tears. Mostly.

My daughter wore her rain boots. When I carried her through pouring rain to my mother-in-law's house, she cried. She wanted to run through the rain unassisted. So I turned around, walked back to the car, put her down and let her go. Tantrum averted. 

Soaked in my shirt and tie, I waited a few minutes inside the house to let the rain die down.

The drive to work was slow, my wipers going full blast. 

Still soaked from earlier, I ran through the parking lot in pouring rain to get to my office. I joked with a co-worker about my inability to read the weather forecast.

***

"Your house is on fire."

Rush out the door. Try to lock a door with shaky hands. Run to the car. 

The phone calls started coming.

I talked to my mother, my mother-in-law, my wife, my friend, my cousin. 

What could I have left on? A coffee pot? The stove? No. Coury unplugged the coffee pot. No one used the stove that morning.

Maybe it's minor, contained to a room. The cat will be fine. He'll be hiding under the bed, safe, in another room. The house will be fine.

I called the neighbor.

"How bad is it?"

"It's bad. There's smoke rolling out of your windows. The street is blocked off."

I parked at the old Dairy Freeze and ran to my house. My wife met me behind a fire truck. 

It was bad.

***

It's 4 a.m. on August 11. Coury is asleep beside me in a hotel room (thank you, Red Cross). Eliot is on the bed next to us. Emerson is having a sleepover at Ma Dee's house. 

We're displaced, but safe. Our house will, at the very least, be gutted, rewired, new plumbing, new heating and air. 

It will be at least a month before the first hammer is swung, I'm told. It will be at least six months before we move back in.

Obviously it could be worse. The scenarios are too many and too painful to even write down. We are safe.

***

We live in an amazing place full of generous people. I am floored by the offers to help, the donations, the food, the show of concern. Our phones haven't stopped since 11:37 a.m. on August 9. I could never say thank you enough. I promise we will pay it forward.