The cat is meowing pitifully. It is to be expected, but this time it seems different. I open the door of my room and peer out.

And then I smell it. Gas.

The smell isn't strong, it is just a faint odor of gas. It seems to be strongest in the TV room, and it isn't coming from any of the usual suspects... the oven, the furnace... I even waft the refrigerator just to make sure.

Not quite convinced that I should do anything and late for work, I open the sash so that the cats can have some fresh air and not die whilst I am away. Where is it coming from? The second floor?

I suddenly have an intense and vivid vision of approaching the apartment on the second floor. I knock, and no one answers, but as I knock the door swings inwards. In my vision, the smell of gas is overwhelming, coming from the oven. My neighbor lies prone on the floor in the next room. I shut off the gas and run over to him, checking ABC... airway, breathing, circulation. He is alive. I'm suddenly furious, and later in my vivid day dream I yell at him for not only being stupid enough to try to kill himself, but to endanger me and the cats and the rest of the people in the house. I tell him that he's lucky that I happened to stay at home today to watch my overdue library video instead of going to work. He is cowed and ashamed.

Back in real life, I grab my keys and head down the stairs. I hesitate on the landing. I knock on the second floor door. No answer. I knock again, louder. No answer. Troubled by my vision, I check to see if it is locked, and it comes open in my hand. As the door swings inwards, I am greeted by the overwhelming scent of gas. I walk over to the oven. The oven knob is on BROIL and one of the gas burners is on HIGH.

I shut the oven off and I am fiddling with the other knob when my neighbor walks in. Sebastian. Athletic, brunette, attractive. When I see him I hate the drugs he takes, all of his stupid friends, and the waste of his humanity.

"Did you know that your gas is on?" I say.

He looks over at the knobs. "Well," he answers, "this knob is broken..." he points to the one that still says HIGH. "I always think it's on... I often smell gas... but... I guess I was beginning to think I was crazy. I think maybe it has a leak or something, but I haven't called about it or anything."

He comments that he didn't realize that he left his door unlocked. I am suddenly sheepish, an intruder in his house.

"Yeah, sorry," I manage, "I was just worried about you."

"Thanks for checking in on us."

He continues, telling me about how he's moving to San Diego in June and how he's going to work at a restaurant so that he can earn enough money to go to Europe.


He doesn't sound like someone who would turn the oven to BROIL and leave it on.

Vision averted.

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