False Alarm

Late last night, as Rian was nattering comfortably to Dr. Lorimer, the Abode began to shrill and speak.

"Fire. Upstairs. Smoke!" The Voice in the panel Scolded. "Fire. Upstairs. Smoke!"

Rian rolled off the chaise and rushed upstairs to see if, perhaps, Aidan had suddenly taken up cigarettes. (I will not mention his bedside lamp that HAS caught fire once before.) Someone Else sprang into action and began swearing at the Voice who would, of course, not be silent.

"Fire. Upstairs. Smoke!"

There was no sign nor scent of smoke. Aidan, in fact, sprawled across a painful looking pile of Matchbox cars, was sound asleep.

Whilst the Voice and Someone Else fought over who deserved the telephone line and the ear of the alarm company, Young Black Sheep careened up in his father's ancient Suburban. The alarm service had apparently phoned his home as the backup number. His parents were out of town.

"I was just shootin' some pool," he told Rian several times. "And, woah!"

Rian, wondering whether twas drugs or teenage hormones that dulled the child's previously sharp vocabulary, thanked him profusely for coming to our rescue.

"Sure. I was just shootin' some pool. Say, while I'm here, can I borrow a few movies?"

"Certainly," Rian said, and led the boy back into the Blue/Pink room.

"Fire. Upstairs. Smoke!"

Young Black Sheep selected Kill Bill. Someone Else threw the telephone. Rian walked our would be rescuer back out to the Suburban.

Beneath the sycamore trees Young Black Sheep said farewell by knocking his fisted knuckles against Rian's. It began to rain in sharp, restless spats. And the fire trucks pulled up, lights flashing, sirens silent.