Chapter 1
The heat found my ankles first. It wasn't like the heater vent in our apartment or the blast from the oven when Mom pulled out cookies. It was low and mean, crawling along the wet concrete in orange lines, licking at the old wood walls. I stood in the middle of it in my pink dress with my rabbit crushed against my ribs and the red hose heavy in my right hand. The floor was wet and cold under my one bare foot, my other foot still in its pink sock, and that was the part that didn't make sense. Water was pooling around my toes while fire ate the edge of the shed.
The man shouted and the rope creaked. He was tied up thick around his chest and stomach with the same kind of rough rope Dad used for the truck, his white shirt torn open at the shoulder and his chest showing underneath. Sweat cut clean lines through the soot on his skin and his dark hair stuck to his forehead. He pulled against the rope until his shoulders shook and his mouth was open wide.
My name is Macy. I was three that summer and I still held my rabbit the way I held Mom's hand.
I remember the brass nozzle in my hand more than anything. It was cold at first, then warm from my palm. I remember the way the light hit it, red hose to gold tip, and how heavy it was for me. I stared down at the water on the floor and then at the flames and I couldn't make them match. I squeezed the handle. Nothing happened. No water came out. My rabbit's ear dragged in the water and turned gray. I breathed in and smoke caught in the back of my throat and my eyes watered.
That's when I looked up close at his face. Soot specked his cheek and his eyes kept flicking from me to the flames to the door. His chest heaved and the rope dug deeper when he twisted. His tattoo showed where his shirt had ripped. He wasn't looking past me. He was looking right at me, trying to make his voice steady.
"Macy, go find Mommy."
I didn't move. The floor was burning and he couldn't. I looked at the rope around him and the way it held his arms tight to his sides and I said what I saw.
"You're stuck."
He nodded once, fast, sweat dripping down his neck. His eyes closed for half a second like it hurt to agree.
"I know, go find Mommy."
He said it softer that time, like he thought I didn't understand the first time. Behind him a board popped and a new flame ran quick along the wall. The smoke was getting thicker up near the roof, hanging low and gray. I coughed and pressed my rabbit tighter to my chest. The door to the shed was right there to my left, that old wood door with the black iron latch. It wasn't shut. It was open a crack and I could see a bright line of daylight and the green outside through it. The orange glow from inside made the edge of the door look black.
He saw me look at the door and he shouted it.
"Run!"
I shook my head. I didn't know how to say everything I was thinking. I didn't know why the hose was in my hand or why the floor was wet if there was no water coming out, but I knew one true thing. Fire was supposed to get water. Mom always said it. You don't leave fire alone with water right there. My fingers tightened around that brass nozzle until my knuckles went white.
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"But fire needs water."
We stared at each other then. Me with my one sock wet and my rabbit and the dead hose, him bound and leaning toward me as far as the rope would let him. The flames kept moving along the floor toward my feet and the smoke started to sting and the daylight through that cracked door got hazier. Neither of us moved toward it. We just stayed in that smoke-filled shed, caught between the order to run and the reason to stay.
