The Boy Who Cried Fire

Thirty-six hours later, my room still smells like a campsite.  

Luckily, the stench (which isn't totally bad -- I detect a toasted marshmallow or two) is the only consequence of a fire that ravaged a second-floor kitchen Tuesday afternoon.  

Apparently, someone on the second floor left a grease-filled pan on the stove burner at full-blast. 

I'm on the sixth-floor.  I wasn't in my room when it happened.  Good thing, because if I was, I probably wouldn't have believed the alarm. Among its other shortcomings, Unite House has a spotty and inconsistent fire alarm system.  It goes off biweekly, usually at 4 a.m.  I don't think these are drills.  I imagine these 4 a.m. alarms are triggered by drunk people who manage to toss a frozen pizza in the oven before they pass out.

Whatever the cause, I've become desensitized to the alarms.  The regularity with which they go off have established the boy who cried wolf syndrome many times over.  They were a tired stunt.

Not anymore.