Gas. It fills up my nose quickly as I turn the stove’s dial from 10 to 0. It makes a crackling noise, kind of like your legs do when you get up from a long car trip to stretch. I had been making tea and ran into the kitchen with the intention of turning off the stove to make the kettle stop screeching.
More gas smell manages to crawl into my nostrils. It smells absolutely terrible, so I try fanning it away to no avail. Have I kept the stove knob on “light” for too long? The stove doesn’t usually smell like this.
BEEP.
Then I hear it.
BEEP.
Some detector gadget is going off somewhere.
BEEP.
Is it the smoke alarm? Or perhaps the gas detector.
BEEP.
The sound echoes through my empty house. It’s quite annoying, really. It’s scary more than anything, though.
BEEP.
I should probably get out of here, just in case it is a gas detector. Better safe than sorry.
BEEP! The alarm agrees.
Quickly, I’m grabbing for the door handle, glancing at the stove, and praying my house doesn’t burn down or something. I don’t even grab my phone. If that really is a gas alarm, I better get out quick. Right out of the blue, I have a flashback to third grade...

~I’m sitting in the White Heath Elementary School cafeteria. I can smell the aromas of today’s menu item: taco salad. It's my favorite lunch, the epitome of awesome.

That’s not why I’m here, though.

Some local firemen are coming in to talk about fire and poison gas safety. Most kids don’t care or pay attention to the things they talk about. I do. Maybe one day I might need it.~

I do need it. I remember the firemen explaining how deadly poison gas and fire can be. I also recall that I need to go get help-- and quick.

It’s neon fuzzy slippers on pavement as I dash down the street; my destination is a friend named Cassidy, whose house is just down the road. I’m wearing an ankle brace: the result of a clumsy accident and a couple trips to the hospital(and surgery room) last December. It causes me to limp-run, for my ankle isn’t fully recovered. This sends me into even more panic. The situation is like a time bomb-- every second that I waste could ultimately lead to disaster when my time is up-- when the clock ticks down to zero. My house could be filling up with gas, therefore making it unlivable and all my fault.
I come to a stop on the cold, hard pavement of Cassidy’s porch, panting as my finger pushes in the doorbell. A chime, ironically sounding a lot like church bells on a peaceful Sunday morning, echoes throughout the house. Once. I can hear it outside, it’s so loud. No one. I ring it once more. This time, Cassidy’s mom comes out, glancing at my neon fuzzy slippers and extremely worried expression.
“Yes?” she asks. She’s clueless as to why I, her daughter’s friend and neighbor, would be standing on her front porch looking so flustered. She begins, “Cassidy’s upstairs if you need he--”, but I cut her off.
“I have a situation,” I interrupt, “an emergency, even.” My voice starts shaking as if I might cry.Bad timing, self!

I shortly explain to her my situation: the gas in the stove and the alarm in the kitchen. Just then, she chuckles.
What?!
“Oh, our stove does that all the time. You probably just left it on “light” for too long. As for your alarm, the battery is probably low and needs replaced,” she explains matter-of-factly. Blood rushes to my cheeks and I get a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. I am mortified. I just risked re-injuring my ankle by running to this house for help in a pair of fuzzy slippers. She’s telling me it’s nothing?
Just to make sure, I ask, “So my house won’t burn down or fill up with gas in an epic array of smoke and sadness because I’m bad at boiling tea water?”
“I’m going to say no,” she assures me.
So I left that cold concrete porch. I said goodbye, of course. I wasn’t spared a red face and an embarrassed expression, though.