I was grateful that Mark’s floor mats weren’t carpeted when I pulled the vomit-covered one out of the truck and left it in the snow. He had a quaint little house in town–a location I didn’t care for at all. I naturally assumed that if he ever proposed, he would move into my house so that I wouldn’t have to brave the cramped, yardless city scene.

Mark’s house was kept far more organized than mine. His magazines were sorted by date and title: favorites on the coffee table, the rest tucked away on a bookshelf in the hall. He had no pets which kept the dusting to a minimum. The living room was arranged symmetrically just like the pillows on his bed which he made every single morning. He was one of a kind. I felt like so much of a slob around him that I rearranged my living room and started organizing all of the printed material that I owned. I mean, the magazines and living room that I used to have.

We stepped in the front door and took off our shoes. I noticed that I was wearing snow boots; they were the only pair of shoes I had left. The weight of an overwhelming burden settled on my shoulders. I had so much to do to rebuild my life, starting with buying another pair of shoes.

Mark took my coat and hung it next to his. He stared down into my eyes and brushed my hair behind my ear. He pulled me in close for a kiss on the lips before burying his face in my hair.

“You smell like smoke. Why don’t you wash up, take a hot shower, then we’ll figure some things out.” I agreed. “I’m going down the street to pick up a few things, take your time.”

Showering proved to be a more difficult task than I expected. I had trouble getting undressed, not to mention discovering that I only had one pair of underwear now. I held my bandaged right hand outside the shower curtain to keep it from getting wet. A half hour later, I emerged from the steamy bathroom with Mark’s oversized bathrobe on feeling more like a drowned rat than a fresh, new woman. When he heard me, he came down the hallway with a bag that he handed to me.

“What’s this?”

“Stuff. I hope it helps. I got everything I could think of that you might need,” he said. The bag was full of toiletries–deodorant, shampoo, conditioner, disposable razors, mousse, a hairbrush.

“Well, it’s not quite everything,” I said, “but I think it’ll do.” I smiled for the first time since I left home to run errands. For only eight months with me, he did well. I remember thinking he was a keeper.

I did the best with what I had and so did Mark. He wasn’t much of a cook but he threw something together for dinner.

“Thank you. For taking me in for the night. For helping me.”

“Isn’t that what boyfriends do?”

“Yes. But I won’t stay long, I promise,” I reassured him.

“Don’t worry about it. Really. Please stay as long as you’d like. Stay forever if you want.”

I stared at my plate. I was already overwhelmed, and I hated that life had taken my independence and my dog from me today. And he wanted to take care of me like this…for forever? “What do you mean?” I questioned.

“I don’t know. I just like the thought of having you around. I understand you wanting your own home though. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Sorry.”

I didn’t know what to say so I kept eating. I felt him watching me. “I need underwear,” I said. What would be awkward for most people wasn’t for Mark. He played along.

“I’m sorry I forgot underwear. But I should probably put a ring on your finger before I go buying you underwear anyway. Do we need to go shopping?”

“Yes, please,” I said. We went to Kohl’s where I picked up some jeans, t-shirts, and underwear. Not my favorite place to shop, but you don’t have much of a choice when you’re replacing your entire wardrobe. I supposed that Goodwill would be a stop in the near future, so I appreciated the decent shopping atmosphere while I could and swiped my plastic at the cash register.

On the ride home, exhaustion hit me. I took some ibuprofen to numb my throbbing hand and sunk down into the couch with Mark. I rested my head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat until I fell asleep. It was only 9:00, but dreams didn’t wait.

Disturbing images haunted my mind. I saw my house as it was with dead bodies of big black dogs like Juney strewn all over the floor. The house began to flood, and soon I was wading through the water as their bloated bodies surrounded me. All the eyes were open, staring at me as if asking for help. I couldn’t escape. The water trapped me inside and kept rising.

I woke to my own muffled cries for help, a throbbing hand, and wet cheeks.

Smoke was billowing from my broken bedroom window. The flames were licking at the ceiling inside. The heat was intense, worse than the hottest summer day or the biggest bonfire. It felt like my face was on fire. Finally it hit me. My brain started processing again and I realized that everything I owned and worked for was burning before my eyes.

And Juney was still inside. A scream welled up inside me. I grabbed the nearest firefighter by his sleeve. “Where is my dog? Have you seen my dog?” I screamed into his mask.

He asked me if there was anyone else inside. I told him about Junebug, about how I locked her in the kennel, how it was right outside my bedroom door. “She’s a big black lab. Have you seen her?” I urged.

He walked away, back to the truck and said something to another firefighter. Shouldn’t he have run inside right away to get her? Panic rose inside me along with a mixture of stomach acid and my lunch. I have never felt more terrified, more frustrated that Juney was right by the part of my house that was burning yet the firefighters appeared to be doing nothing. She was just as much my family as any person; they couldn’t just leave her in there. If she was hurt, if she needed treatment, I’d pay anything to save her. I’d do anything.

My feet couldn’t stand there anymore. I ran toward the front door, scaling the steps of the front porch. I felt like my winter coat might burst into flames in the heat. I reached out for the door and took the handle which I immediately regretted. It was searing hot. I couldn’t stop thinking of ways to get inside to her, though I thought my hand might have had at least a first degree burn. When I turned around, a firefighter was there to escort me–drag me–away from the house. My hand started throbbing. Though I feel terrible admitting this, I considered abandoning my rescue efforts because of the pain.

I struggled against the firefighters grip until he took me by the shoulders and yelled in my face. I couldn’t go in, he said. It was full of smoke and no one in there–if they were still in there–would still be alive. I don’t know what happened, but the adrenaline once racing through my veins for Junebug stopped dead. My knees buckled, but he swept my feet from underneath me and carried me to the ambulance.

I couldn’t cry. My eyes were drier than desert sand, my emotions were overloaded, my heart had surely burst inside me. Why didn’t I take Junebug with me? Why didn’t I just let her come?

The firefighter put me down on the stretcher. Another one approached me. They were everywhere. I wished they would just go away if they weren’t going to help. “Ma’am? George Hanson.” He extended a hand until he realized mine was lame. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Brooke. Brooke Reilly.” He asked if there was anyone he could call for me, anyone I could stay with tonight. It was the first time I realized that the firefighters wouldn’t just drive away and leave me here when it was all over. This was not just a bad dream. I didn’t have a bed. I didn’t have food. I didn’t have a single article of clothing other than what I was wearing. I had built my life up for seven years and lost it in a couple of hours. I was homeless.

I told him to call my boyfriend, Mark, as I reached for my cell phone to turn it off and conserve its power. The paramedic touched the hot skin on my fingers. My eyes burned, too, wishing they could shed tears and find relief. Mr. Hanson started asking me questions about my house: had I left anything on the stove, were there firearms or fireworks in the house, did I live with anyone else, was there anything near the house that I would like for them to attempt to salvage.

My life. I wanted them to save my life. I wanted my house back. I wanted to smell my sheets. I wanted to play fetch with Junebug. I wanted to feel the cold hardwood floor under my feet when I woke up every morning. “No. Thank you.”

By then, I noticed neighbors crawling in like cockroaches to marvel at the remains of my charred–and still burning–home. They whispered to each other, avoiding eye contact with me, and kept a safe distance. I was so alone. I could only think of Juney and if she was still alive. I kept seeing it in my head: this morbid scene of her scratching at the cage until her toenails bled, wheezing in the smoke, lying down to die. I didn’t want to believe it.

“My Junebug burned alive in her kennel. And it’s all my fault,” I said. The paramedic stopped what she was doing to look up at me with wide eyes. Then she began to cry.