One Tuesday night, everything changed. During dinner, the fire alarm began screaming — not the usual false alarm, but something urgent and terrifying. Smoke crept through the hallways, and the elevators went dark. I got Nick out safely, down nine crowded flights of stairs, my lungs burning and heart racing. Once outside, surrounded by neighbors and fire trucks, I realized Mrs. Lawrence was nowhere to be seen. She couldn’t use the stairs, and no one else was going back in. I made the choice without thinking much about it — I left my son in the crowd and ran back inside.
I found her waiting in her wheelchair, frightened but composed. There was no way to take the chair down, so I carried her myself, step by step, all nine flights. My arms shook, my back screamed, but I didn’t stop until we reached the street. The fire was contained, and our homes survived, but the elevators were shut down for days. I carried her back upstairs later, then helped with groceries, trash, and daily needs afterward. I didn’t see it as heroism — it was simply what you do for someone you love.
