Ted E. Bear

For some reason, the blaring alarm didn't wake me. I was woken by my mother screaming my name and saying we needed to "get out now."

Down the stairs. Past the playroom ablaze. Out the front door. Into the street.

Orange flames shot sideways out of the house, the conflagaration blinding and bewildering. A thick fog enveloped my mind, my bare feet numb on the pavement, my fingers locked around Ted E. Bear's soft paw.

My parents didn't let me watch for long.

Inside the safety of my neighbors house, the groginess subsided, and I realized that my teddy bear was the only material item I had left, that any of us had left for that matter.