It was Friday the fourteenth. Peter had joked that they'd narrowly missed a bout of bad luck, and that was a relief. Sometimes Wendy felt as though the world turned on its axis just to spite her. 

    Her against the world. Well, now, her and Peter.

    She'd met Peter in a Starbucks on the way to her job at Dunkin' Donuts. It was stupid of her to buy Starbucks when it was a five-minute detour from home to work, but she didn't care. All the employee discounts in the world wouldn't stop her from buying four dollars' worth of Starbucks every morning.

    Peter had an aura about him. He was handsome enough, but she'd seen better; it was just the way he carried himself. She had been drawn to him like a magnet, and she had known at that moment that if she didn't talk to him, she'd regret it forever and ever.

    So she'd spilled her coffee on him. And they'd talked. And now, on February fourteenth, they were eating charcuterie in a fancy New York restaurant that neither of them could afford.

    It was something they'd worry about later. Money was always just here and there.

    "Charcuterie is basically just a fancy word for meat," Peter said with an air of importance. "Did you know that? I suppose you didn't."

    "No, I knew," Wendy lied. Her attention was taken by a chef holding a pan of flaming cognac. She observed the blue flames licking at each other, like little curious snakes, and smiled at Peter. "I'm so glad we're doing this."

    "Anything for my princess," said Peter, smiling back. "How's Isabella?"

    "Oh, she's alright," said Wendy. "I love this wine. Is it expensive?"

    "'Course. Everything in this restaurant is expensive. But like I said, anything for my princess." Peter leaned forward and covered her hands with his. She wasn't sure if the sparkle in his eye was the candlelight or if it was just the wine. "Listen, Wendy, I love you."

    She blinked. They'd never said it before, but she'd just assumed that that was some sort of unspoken rule. Anyway, you couldn't not love Peter. It was like saying you didn't love your family; that was ridiculous, you had to love your family.

    "Yeah, I love you too," she said. She wondered if that had been too long a pause. To really enforce it, she repeated it. "I love you a lot."

    "Really?" said Peter. "I mean, I kind of knew, but I was a little worried there. Phew, huh?"

    "No, 'course I love you," said Wendy, distracted again by the flames. They couldn't possibly be real—so smooth, so pretty, so blue. It was the kind of blue that made you think of mystics and fairies.

    "That's good," said Peter, resting his chin on his palm and looking thoughtfully at his meat. "Say, Wendy, what would you think if we got a nice house? Big, bigger than any of those those peeling houses you see 'round the city. We could have a pool. Big flatscreen TV in every room. We could buy lottery tickets and watch them show the winning numbers on TV, and we might probably win."

    "Would we have a dog?" said Wendy. Her landlady wouldn't let her keep a dog.

    Peter laughed. "Of course we'd have a dog."

    "Then yeah, I suppose I'd love it. We'd never be able to do it, though."

    "Why not?"

    Wendy thought about it. They didn't have the money, but money was just here and there. They'd take care of the bills when the money was "here."

    "I don't know. I think we could do it," she said, looking into Peter's round blue eyes. "We love each other, after all. Love conquers all, right?"

    "Right." Peter stood from his seat, smiling, to kneel down on one knee. Several of the other couples in the restaurant cheered. Peter did a quick scan around the room, to see who was watching, and pulled a small box from his blazer when he was sure he commanded everyone's attention. He said, "Wendy. Will you marry me?"

    Wendy felt as though she were in a dream. It couldn't be true, but it was, and there was only one thing she could possibly say:

    "Yes, Peter. Yes, of course—I love you." Wendy got out of her seat and threw her arms around him. Everyone in the restaurant clapped, the blue cognac flames roared two feet high, and someone popped a bottle of champagne open. It was surreal.

"Oh my God."

    The flames roared up the side of the building, tasting and consuming everything there was to consume. They were no longer fairy-blue and harmless—they were harsh orange, high in their anger, and very, very real.

    "Peter," said Wendy slowly, her eyes traveling up the burning apartment building. "Peter, Isabella is in there."

    "Oh my God," Peter repeated.

    "Peter," said Wendy again. "What am I going to do?"

    "I don't know. Did you get a nanny?"

    "No, I didn't see the point. Babies can't do anything, after all, so I thought that if I just wrapped her up and stuck her in the crib . . ."

    Orange light danced across his face, and his eyes filled with twin reflections of the blazing apartment complex. He said, "A fireman will save her. They always do."

    "Yes, of course," said Wendy. She felt a hint of anxiety nibbling at her stomach. "What do you think started the fire?"

    "Oh, I don't know," said Peter, squinting up at the building and coughing. "Lord, you could smell the smoke from a mile away. I'll bet it's an old lady who left her stove on. Nine times out of ten it is, I tell you."

    "Really," said Wendy/ She hardly knew what was coming out of her mouth as she spoke. The flames were mesmerizing, in a curious, frightening way that made the pit of her stomach roil. "Nine times out of ten."

    "Yep, nine times out of ten."

    "Where'd you hear that?"

    "Not sure. You see funny facts here and there."

    "Mm." Her attention was diverted when a woman screamed, "Look up there! The fourteenth floor—something's happening there!"

    I live on the fourteenth floor, Wendy thought.

    A fireman was standing on a contraption she'd seen construction workers use, which levitated him to a fourteenth-story window. Wendy's window—she knew because she and Peter had stood in this very spot a week ago, trying to figure out which window was hers.

    "There. I told you a fireman would get to her," said Peter, putting a hand on her shoulder.

    Wendy just watched the fireman enter the building. The entire street of New Yorkers held their breath, and the entire street cheered as the fireman barreled out from the top of the burning apartment building, fourteen stories high, with a baby girl in his arms.

    Then the entire street of New Yorkers screamed as the baby flew from his grip—hung in the air with the sun for one glorious, scorching second—and plummeted.

    "My baby," said Wendy. It should have been a scream, but it wasn't.

    It wasn't possible. It wasn't real, but it was, it really was, and all she could say was, "My baby."

    Everyone around her wept, the firemen kept buffering the flames with hoses, and a wall of orange consumed the building. It was surreal, yet all too real.