SIX YEARS EARLIER
NATALIA DUCKED HER HEAD to look at the burner she’d set the covered pot of water on. Despite the clicking, the gas flame had not started up. It smelled like rotten eggs. She twisted the knob to the off position.
Her mom had complained about this burner before. But what exactly did she do when it wouldn’t light? Then Natalia remembered. There was a box of wooden matches on the top shelf of the cupboard, kept as far away from Conner as possible.
The flame of the first match went out when Natalia tried to move it toward the stove. The second died before she even turned the knob. The third time she turned the knob before she scraped the match along the rough brown stripe on the outside of the box. It took three tries before it caught.
Woof! A ball of orange exploded in front of her. The right cuff of her long-sleeved shirt caught fire. She watched it race up her arm like a magic trick she didn’t understand.
She had to run for the sink, her arm a torch in front of her. Every step fed more air to the flames. As she turned on the faucet, the fire from her sleeve caught the muslin curtains framing the kitchen window. It raced up one side and then leapt onto the wallboard and found a foothold. It expanded as it burned, making a V shape on the white-painted wall as it made its way to the ceiling.
Meanwhile, Natalia’s sleeve was still burning. She leaned forward to get the full length of her sleeve under the blast of water. She finally succeeded in dousing the flames on her shirt, but the fire no longer needed her. Bits of burning curtain landed on a dish towel and an open cookbook. Then the cupboard over the cookbook started to burn, as well as the cardboard boxes inside it, and the cereal, crackers, and cookies inside the boxes. Overhead the smoke alarm buzzed like a mosquito, barely audible over the hungry roar of the fire.
She turned. The stovetop itself was on fire, fed by oily residue in the burner wells.
A glass sat on the countertop. Natalia grabbed it and stuck it under the faucet. Even before it was full, she was throwing its contents. She put out a few of the flames, but the fire kept spreading. It had reached the ceiling now, rolling overhead and doubling in size every minute.
Suddenly she remembered she had more to worry about than just herself. Conner was upstairs. She dropped the glass in the sink and ran.
By the time she reached the stairs, the hot cloud of black smoke had thickened and deepened. It inched down to the top of the kitchen doorway, then quickly streamed out of the room, traveling through the hall and following her up the stairway. By the time she reached his bedroom door, smoke was pooling around her ankles.
As she swung it open, the fire leapt on the fresh oxygen. The backdraft knocked her to the floor. Gasping for breath, she took in only bitter fumes. Gagging, she crawled across the carpet. Her one thought was to save Conner.
But when she reached his bed, it was empty. Empty! How could that be? She frantically ran her hands over the rumpled covers, searching for him by touch as much as sight. Thick black choking smoke was filling the room.
And then she thought to look under the bed. She dropped to her belly. And there he was, absolutely still, eyes wide, clutching his blankie.
She reached out, grabbed his small arm, and dragged him out. He was nearly limp, and she didn’t know if it was from the smoke or sheer, primal terror. In order to carry him, she had to stand up. Stand up into the dark, choking smoke. Clutching him to her chest, she staggered blindly toward his bedroom window. When she raised it, the air gave the flames another boost. Ashes and smoke blew past her as the fire was sucked toward the fresh supply of oxygen.
Behind her was the fire, now racing into the room. Below her was a fifteen-foot drop to the concrete driveway. She pushed out the screen and heard it clatter when it landed.
Natalia’s only thought was for her brother. Every breath was searing her lungs. His were so much smaller. She grabbed Conner’s wrists and then lowered him out the window so he could breathe. He finally made a sound, a wordless protest when his blankie fell onto the driveway. She inched forward until her hip bones rested on top of the sill. It was as far as she could go.
Conner dangled from her hands. Behind her, his bedroom was now on fire. The house was on fire. It felt like the whole world was on fire. A chunk of burning ceiling landed on Natalia’s thigh. She had no way of getting it off, not without risking her brother’s life. It didn’t even hurt that much.
At least not at first.
Her grip did not loosen. There was nothing underneath Conner to break his fall. Not a tree or a bush. Not even a patch of grass. Just the unforgiving asphalt of the driveway.
The smoke billowing from behind her was so thick she could no longer see Conner dangling from her hands. He wasn’t twisting or moving. He was now absolutely still. Was he still breathing? Was he even conscious?
“Help!” she screamed into the blackness. “Help us!”
But there was no answer. Next to her, the windows in her parents’ bedroom suddenly blew out. A piece of glass sliced her chin as flames shot out.
Half her body was outside the window. The heat and smoke behind her were pushing her farther out.
No one was coming. If she did nothing, she would burn to death and he would fall. The only possible way to save him was to bring him back inside, clutch him to her chest and throw herself back out of the window, hoping that her body would cushion him. That she would absorb the force of the fall.
She adjusted her grip, getting ready to haul him back up. And suddenly, Conner came to life. It was like trying to clutch a twisting fish.
She tried to hold on to his wrists. Then his hands. Then his fingers.
Then Conner was gone.
And Natalia pushed herself out into the air after him.