By Marshall Thornton
© 2008 Marshall Thornton
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A siren woke them in the night. Jan Birch pulled her navy mohair coat over her flannel nightgown and stepped into a shapeless pair of slippers. Her husband, Jim, was still struggling with his pants when she said, “I’m going.”
“Wait,” he replied, but she ignored him. Someone’s house must be on fire. That must be what the siren meant and her heart skipped at the idea it could be Carol’s house or Patty’s. Her friends might need her. She couldn’t wait for Jim.
In the short hallway, Jan glanced into her son’s room. Stephen’s light was on, half a dozen Matchbox cars and a G.I. Joe tucked in the folds of his blanket, but he was asleep. Good, let him sleep through this, whatever it turns out to be.