“I think the dryer is on fire,” His son said and then added, “Hey, that rhymes!”
Karim isn’t listening. He is studying the piece of paper in his hand. He found it in his pocket, crumpled like it had been there a while. There are letters written there. It is in his handwriting–his long swoops and curls forming letters that looked closer to hieroglyphs than a living language. No, that’s not quite right. It is different than that. Somewhere between the Japanese Katakana his son stared at on the animes and hieroglyphs.
“Serioiusly, dad. Do you smell that?”
He does. Dryer lint makes a smell worse than burnt popcorn. More dangerous too, but his eyes never leave the paper. Has he seen these symbols before? His mouth moved numbly, trying to shape sounds from a memory so deep it could’ve been buried before he learned how to speak.
“Dad?” Small hands on his arms, shaking him.
The first syllable comes out of him like a moan. He feels each part of the letter move through him. He smells smoke closer now. Maybe in the fireplace? Hears a snap and a sizzling crash.
“Dad!” Frantic now. Shaking him but he’s too big to move. He has to get the entire word out of him. The last syllable dies in an exhale. He slumps forward, the paper falling from his trembling hand.
There’s a sound, like a boy yelling. His boy?
“Cam, why are you yelling?”
Cameron stares at him frantically; his eyes wide and dumbstruck. Only now does he see the fireplace roaring, the smoke rising from the laundry room at the corner of his eye. The fire alarm is yowling.
“What did you do, Cam?”
But Cam isn’t listening. He’s staring at a crumpled piece of paper on the floor. There’s something written on it. Karim thinks he’s seen it before. It’s in his own handwriting.