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One of the firefighters climbed in the truck, revved the engine, and rammed the Monte Carlo, pushing it clear of the gas pumps in a vortex of sparks and smoke. When the firefighters dropped their hoses and ran, we also picked our escape routes. The engine’s flames burst into the cabin and, with a whoosh like something from the movies, a fireball plumed and billowed out of the windows, the car’s tires popping and rollicking the vehicle. Fire trucks wheeled in and firefighters laid down water streams. The more courageous fetched extinguishers from the mini-mart and sprayed the car fire. The driver, panicked, threw them too high and they clinked onto the overhead canopy. As we scattered, someone yelled for the keys. The Monte Carlo's doors opened and I tumbled out onto the asphalt with my friends. I remember awaking abruptly at a midnight gas stop, a pop, and firelight flickering from the seams of the car’s hood. Louis, giving me the perfect captive audience for reading my first draft. The story rode along with me and five friends in a sixteen-hour road trip to St. I printed the three hundred page manuscript on a dot matrix printer, three hole punched it, and slid it into a black binder. Salvatore at the time, and, not surprisingly, wove a tale of elves, wars, and magic swords. Each day I typed out a few more paragraphs, maybe a scene. The Word Perfect screen greeted me with a blinking cursor. I had a work/study job at the college computer lab, and, after completing all of my tasks of refilling the printer paper and testing the mice, I sat down and slipped a five-and-a-quarter inch disk into the drive. I wrote my first story at the age of eighteen.