Page 1 of You'll Love it Here

Incident Report

Senior Fire Investigator Lawrence Dubini: Digital Notes (335–64)

Incident Summary: At 4:14 p.m. on June 21, the Calgary Fire Department responded to a major fire reported at Valleyview Apartments.

Initial Observations: Upon arrival, flames were visible from the top floor window (four stories). The fire was contained and fully extinguished by 10:44 p.m. Preliminary assessments indicate the fire spread rapidly through the stairwell.

Building details: Built in 1909, Valleyview Apartments is a privately owned multifamily residential property managed by an on-site landlord. The building consists of sixteen individual units, one of which is occupied by the owner. Each unit consists of a living/kitchen area, bedroom, and bathroom. The basement of the building consists of three tenant-accessible rooms: a laundry room (two washers and two dryers); a tenant storage facility (doorway obstructed by many packages); and a “recreational room” (containing a single treadmill, a pool table, and a deflated Bosu ball).

Damage: Multiple units show signs of severe fire and smoke damage. The integrity of critical support structures, including floor joists and wall assemblies, is currently under review by the Department of Buildings and city structural engineers. As of this report, the livability of the affected units remains undetermined.

Investigation: The cause of the fire is under investigation. Initial statements from tenants suggest conflict among residents may be relevant to the investigation.

Some Ragrats

Six weeks ago...

I wake with alarms blaring in my skull. I groan, pulling a pillow over my head—but the motion makes last night’s tequila roil in my stomach, and I’m forced to sit upright to keep the acid reflux, and everything else, down.

I squint my dry eyes against the late-morning sunlight spilling into my tiny bedroom. Even though the exterior of the windows probably hasn’t been washed since the colored television was introduced, it’s still too bright. I extract myself from the duvet I appear to have wrestled with all night and stand to close the blinds.

Something crinkles under my foot. I pull it back and discover a mess of electric orange dust. I groan again, realizing I’ve stepped on an empty Flamin’ Hot Cheetos bag—a completely reckless flavor. Exhibit A of my emotional state last night: downing snacks that I know will hurt my insides like I still had the indestructible body of my twenties.

Then I see Exhibit B: Resting on my nightstand are two large teal-glazed halves of a broken vase—correction, a vase thatI didn’t buy. Because who brings ornamental décor into a place like this? No amount of knickknacks like fluffy pillows, flowerpots, or wallhangings are capable of distracting from the laundromat-like ambience. This isn’t home, not really. It’s a temporary situation, and there’s no point in getting comfortable.

My head continues to pound as I walk across the scraped-up wooden floor of my room to where my favorite office slacks are crumpled in a sad pile. Damn it. I have a strict hang-up rule for that pair because they tend to wrinkle in unforgiving ways. The rest of the outfit I wore to work yesterday—crisp white button-down shirt (now limp), black blazer (now smelling like tequila sweat)—is strewn about the floor just as carelessly.

Dread coils inside me as my sluggish brain recalls flashes of memories: Me, ordering a second round of drinks for my work friends, even though the giant ball-shaped ice cubes from the bar were a red flag as far as pricing goes. Me, sloppily clinking glasses with everyone while droplets sprayed across the table. Me, ordering a third round—or was it fourth? After that, it’s foggy.

The ringing in my head is only getting worse. Everything inside and outside of me is all wrong. I’ve not had a hangover in years, maybe since a decade ago when I was still an undergrad. Am I dying?

I rub my temple, hoping to snuff the sound that’s rattling inside my brain that’s piercing straight through to my teeth. It’s so loud and—wait, it’s not inside my head. There is an actual alarm.

I grab my crumpled trousers and slide them on, a strange complement to my ratty sleep tee and the itchy G-string lace panties that only emerge from the back of the drawer when I’m down to the wire. I hardly wear them because they sometimes shift away from the areas that I’d entrusted them to cover. Another blow: I’d been working so much these past few weeks that I didn’t have time for laundry.

I almost trip over the hem of my pants as I stumble into the living room—they’re too long because they’re meant to be worn with heels. In the hallway, I can hear panicked steps echoing. Shit.People are treating this as a real fire alarm. But the state of me. I’m not in any condition to be viewed publicly at all. And if I leave the apartment like this, I’m not going to have enough time to get ready for work.

Only, another dreadful memory lands, this one curdling my stomach worse than any Cheeto: I can’t go to work today. That’s the actual reason why I broke my strict three-drinkabsolute maximumrule last night.

Because much like the mystery vase in my room, my entire life is cracking open.

A pointed knock sounds from the hallway as an authoritative voice yells, “Everybody needs to get out immediately.”

I spot the housecoat on my bathroom door hook. Its original belt was lost during one unfortunate toilet-dipping too many. I drape it on and glance around. What does one rescue during a fire? My nutrition powders? My color-coded to-do whiteboard?

Alice!

My black goldfish is hovering in her bowl on the coffee table, staring without looking at anything. A couple of months ago, she found a spot that requires the least amount of swimming effort and now she just stays there and stares, barely moving. It’s debatable if what she’s up to is even considered being alive.

Would it be irresponsible to leave Alice? She’s literally surrounded by water, which is pretty fireproof. And trying not to slosh her heavy bowl walking down the stairs would be a logistical nightmare.

As if reading my thoughts, Alice turns just slightly away, her permanently frowning mouth blowing bubbles joylessly. With the amount of time I spend at the office, it wouldn’t have been fair to get a real pet like I wanted... one I could cuddle. But my mom had insisted on getting me something to bring some life into this place. Somehow, that led to me getting this fish. And I fear it’s hadthe opposite effect; this apartment sucked all the life out of Alice instead.

Until yesterday, she was probably the only one who had seen me with a single hair out of place. But I either have to appear like this in front of my neighbors or risk dying a painful and/or terrifying death. I turn around and head for my door. If I hadn’t messed up my life, I’d be at work right now and I wouldn’t be here to save Alice, anyway

A rush of shame pulls through me like it’s happening all over again. I’m back in the boardroom with our client, Bob Wolch. A deeply unpleasant man. He got rich via his oil company decades ago, and it shows. Now he’sdeterminedto get his new distillery to take off, and that’s where my firm comes in. For some reason, he always shoves half a dozen of those ancient mint balls from the reception dish into his cheek. Between mouthfuls, he tends to ramble about how “fun” Vegas is. Normally I can feign enthusiasm enough to get through the Bob meetings.

I adore working at a marketing firm. I love the cutthroat pace, the fact that’s there’s always something new to work on, and the race to make it to the top. I love the spectacle of a big campaign—the show we put on to woo clients, the thrill of pulling brilliant ideas out of thin air. I love the feeling I get walking into my (admittedly tiny) office and closing my door, because I finally have one after years in the cubicle farm. I love when new hires come to me for questions, or the managers tag me for important duties, because I’m really a part of things and on track to keep moving up the ladder.