Chapter 8
I was three feet outside the shed and I still couldn't breathe right. That morning I'd thought smoke was supposed to go up. It didn't. It poured out the doorway in a low, thick sheet and hung around my knees, and it made my eyes water so bad I had to squint to see my own hands.
The spigot was where I'd left it, bolted to the shed's outside wall, a gray-green pipe with a round handle on top. The red hose ran from it down into the dirt and then back through the doorway where I'd dragged it. I still had the brass nozzle in my right hand and my rabbit smashed against my chest with my left. My sock was soaked through. My bare foot was caked with wet ash.
I remembered Dad turning this kind of handle at home. Leftie-loosie. Mom had said it once when the sprinkler wouldn't come on. I reached up with both hands because it was higher than my shoulder. The metal was cold and rough under my palms.
I twisted. It didn't move.
I twisted harder and my rabbit slipped. I caught it against my ribs and tried again, grunting. The handle gave a quarter inch with a sharp squeak, then stuck.
"Come on," I whispered, not to anyone.
Behind me, inside the shed, he coughed. It was a hard, doubled-over sound even though I couldn't see him. The rope must have been cutting into his chest when he tried to breathe.
I set my rabbit down for half a second on the cleanest patch of concrete I could find, right by my foot where I could still touch it with my ankle. I needed both hands. I grabbed the handle and pulled my whole weight into it. My bare foot slid a little on the wet ground.
The handle broke free all at once and spun.
The hose jerked.
It jumped in my hand like something alive and I almost dropped the brass nozzle. A dull thump ran all the way down the red length into the shed, and then a hiss, then nothing, then a choked sputter out the front. A weak, crooked stream shot out six inches and died, spat, shot again. Cold water hit my pink sock and my bare toes and the concrete, and I flinched because I thought I'd done it wrong.
Then the pressure caught.
The nozzle kicked back in my grip and a steadier stream punched out, silver in the daylight, arcing low. It wasn't big like the firemen had in the books Mom read me. It was thin and it wobbled, but it was real water and it kept coming.
I picked up my rabbit one-handed and grabbed the nozzle with the other and turned back toward the doorway. The smoke was still coming hard, and now I could hear the fire inside crackling louder, a hungry popping along the floor edge where the flames had been.
I pointed the brass end through the open door and squeezed.
Nothing happened for a second — I hadn't known to squeeze. When I did, the water found its shape. It hit the wet concrete three feet inside and splashed. I tried to lift it higher, toward the orange flicker I could see crawling up the wall boards, but my arms were too small and the hose was heavy with water. The stream fell short and soaked the floor instead.
Steam came up where the water hit the hot floor. White, sudden, hissing. It mixed with the gray smoke and made everything cloudier for a moment, and I started coughing too.
He coughed again, harder this time. "Low," he called from inside, his voice raw. "Keep it low, Macy, along the floor edge."
I crouched like he said. I didn't know how he knew I was trying to lift it, maybe he could see the spray. I dropped my aim until the water ran flat along the wet reflective floor, right along that thin line where the flames licked the boards. The water pushed at the orange edge and the flames shivered and flattened. Not out, but thinner, hissing. More steam boiled up and rolled out the doorway over my head.
My hands shook. The brass nozzle was freezing now and vibrating. Water kept splashing back onto my dress, my rabbit's ears, my legs. The concrete inside got wetter, pooling, reflecting the fire light even more.
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I held it there, crouched in the doorway, my rabbit pinned under my elbow getting damp, my sock and foot soaked, watching that little line of fire shrink back an inch and then hold, and then try to come back. The hose kept jerking a little in my hands every few seconds when the pressure surged, and I had to squeeze tighter to keep it steady.
The shed was still burning. He was still tied. The smoke was still too thick to go back inside. But the floor edge I'd been so scared of was now dark wet instead of bright orange, at least right in front of the door, and the water was still coming, and I was still holding it.
