Every fall, my family and I would mark dead trees, cut them down, haul (拉拽)the wood and store it in the basement. On Christmas eve, the basement was half full of dry wood.As usual, my sister Shelly and I were home from school, and she did as either of us had done a thousand times before: checked the stove in the hall, tossed a few more logs and slammed the stove door shut.
At the time, I was upstairs having a sink full of dishes to wash, homework to tackle and my grandfather, who was mentally disordered and hated by our family,to care for. Stomping(跺脚)around the kitchen,I thought about how I couldn’t wait to finish washing. The house seemed a little smoky, but that wasn’t unusual since it often went that way after the stove had new logs to chew up. I simply waved the smoke away and continued my business, meanwhile daydreaming of getting away from my grandfather. Suddenly, my sister Shelly hurried in and said, “Don’t you think it’s a little too smoky in here?” I shrugged, uttering nothing, and kept washing. But after another minute, I knew something went wrong.
Without a word to each other, we shot through the kitchen and stared in disbelief as smoke and flames boiled out from the hall. A flush of panic sweeping over me, I hurried Shelly to lead our grandfather out before I was ready to call 911. Unfortunately, my phone was dead.I glanced out the window and saw Shelly, in a sweeter, jeans and slippers and my grandfather, in pants, a T-shirt and socks, shivering in the bone-biting snow, with no place to await help. With the only neighbor living far away, we were likely to die in the freezing cold outside. But if we stayed inside, smoke would surely choke us. However, if I could get my grandfathers phone in his room and probably, if the flames didn’t spread far, there would be a slim chance of survival.
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Though overwhelmed by extreme panic, I decided to take a chance.
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Fire sent me into despair before the familiar figure of my grandfather came into my sight.
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