He dropped down on all fours and tried to peer under the
smoke, tried to locate Kurt, but he couldn't find him.
Alan crawled to the back of the store, to Kurt's den, sure that his
friend would have been back there, worn out from a night's dumpster
diving. He took a false turn and found himself up against the
refrigerator. The little piece of linoleum that denoted Kurt's kitchen
was hot and soft under his hands, melting and scorching. He reoriented
himself, spinning around slowly, and crawled again.
Tears were streaming freely down his face, and between them and the
smoke, he could barely see. He drew closer to the shop's rear, nearly
there, and then he was there, looking for Kurt.
He found him, leaned up against the emergency door at the back of the
shop, fingers jammed into the sliver of a gap between the door's bottom
and the ground. Alan tried the door's pushbar, but there was something
blocking the door from the other side.
He tried slapping Kurt a couple times, but he would not be roused. His
breath came in tiny puffs. Alan took his hand, then the other hand, and
hoisted his head and neck and shoulders up onto his back and began to
crawl for the front door, going as fast as he could in the blaze.
He got lost again, and the floor was hot enough to raise blisters. When
he emerged with Kurt, he heard the sirens.
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