I closed my eyes.
The scream of metal returned.
The heat.
The pressure release like a bomb detonating inside a steel box.
Someone shouting.
My skin burning.
A rack tipping.
Then darkness.
When I woke in the hospital, Victor had been sitting beside me.
I remembered opening my eyes.
“Mateo?”
Victor had squeezed my hand.
“Don’t worry about work.”
“Mateo?”
“Claire, rest.”
I learned two days later that Mateo Soto had died.
He had gone back toward the fryer when he saw me trapped.
Part of the ceiling collapsed during the fire.
He left behind a wife and a nineteen-year-old daughter.
I looked toward Melissa.
She stared at her hands.
Grace changed the projection.
“Mr. Hale later told OSHA that Mateo Soto had operated the fryer against instructions.”
Victor’s face hardened.
“He was the maintenance supervisor.”
“You blamed him,” I said.
Victor looked at me.
I had not meant to speak.
