Danny’s red truck barreled up the windy road. A neighbor who saw him pass said he had to be going at least 90 miles an hour. Danny looked at the speedometer, he was pushing 100 and it still wasn’t fast enough. His heart was beating fast and his head was pounding. You need to come home now. The house is on fire. His wife’s words resounded in his head. He’d been at the gun club and was already packing up to head home for lunch when he got her call. Her call! Oh how he froze when she’d said the words. The house is on fire. She said it calmly, but he could tell she was just as scared as he. I’m out. I’m okay. She’s out. She’s okay. He rounded the last corner, his truck leaning on two wheels. He saw it – up ahead. The house completely engulfed in red and orange flames, smoke darker than night pouring out of the open front door. Danny’s wife stood in the neighbor’s backyard just staring up at the house on the hill. Her hand covered her mouth as she sobbed while the house fell. Where were the firemen? Why was no one here? In one movement he stopped his truck, slammed it in park and ran to her. He took her in his arms and together they sobbed and watched their life crash before their eyes. He couldn’t believe it. Everything they worked for their whole lives. For the past thirty-eight years they’d lived in that house. Every smile, every laugh, every tear, and every memory would forever be lost in the ashes of a broken house.
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