“Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” Wylder pinged off the wall like a kernel of popcorn in a really hot pan. “My butt, my butt, my butt!”

“WHAT THE DEVIL HAS GOTTEN INTO YOU, WYLDER WALLACE?”

Uncle Vim’s roar in the narrow corridor was like someone clanging cymbals right next to your ear. Every character in the carriage, including the naughty Nevinses, froze in place. Even the smoochers stopped smooching. The only thing moving was Wylder. His back pocket—filled with fuel in the shape of a comic book—was now sizzling and sparking like a firecracker. With his bare hand—because what else did he have?—he yanked out the comic and smacked it repeatedly against the wall.

Addy wondered for one second if she could untie the damp jeans from her waist and wring them out to extinguish the fire. About as good as spitting probably.

Catnip kneaded her shoulders with his paws, little tail swishing back and forth.

WHACK! WHACK! Wylder was in a frenzy, whacking the comic so fast and hard that no one could get close enough to help.

“Wylder! You’re going to burn yourself!”

But he didn’t stop. WHACK! WHACK! Sparks popping, smoke puffing, paper curling. His fingers were sooty black, and so was his face. The comic book smoldered. He held it by the spine and rubbed the edges of the pages into the floor.

Addy’s legs wobbled. Uncle Vim staggered. The comic book slipped in Wylder’s hand and—

THWIP!

PING, PING, PING, PING! An alarm bell rang as smoke swirled about the room. What room? A big room! The lobby of the Banff Springs Hotel was in the middle of a fire drill! Or not a drill, but the real thing!

“REMAIN CALM AT ALL TIMES,” insisted a ServiDude. It was bright yellow, with an enormous nozzle where a nose would usually be. “PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE NEAREST EXIT.”

A parade of six more yellow ServiDudes rolled past, each with a narrow ladder extending straight up from its firefighter’s helmet. DING, DING, DING, DING!

Addy saw Wylder drop the comic book, wipe his palms on his pants and scoop it up again. He caught her eye and winced.

“Sorry,” he said.

Have you ever picked up a really hot plate? Your fingertips burn, but you can’t drop the plate because it has someone’s turkey dinner on it. That’s how Wylder felt about the smoldering comic book. He couldn’t run away and put his hands under the tap because the comic would keep burning, and it seemed more important than anything else not to let it burn!

Wylder’s butt hurt too, but not as much. The firecracker had felt like a kick back there, or maybe a hard shot in soccer.

But his fingers—yikes!

Smoke kept pouring from the comic book. He turned the pages, finding the burning bits and rubbing them out. With every turn, the world shuddered, and they went to a new place. Wylder hardly noticed the scenes around him; he was more occupied with the pages themselves.

He coughed a lot, from the smoke coming off the comic book and swirling all around them too. When the comic had fallen into the pool, the whole world had got soaked. Now it was all on fire.

Another THWIP and they were on the flatcar of the train, the one with Isadora’s balloon, jolting past a railway crossing at top speed. The rhythm of the wheels sounded frantic, out of control. CLICKETY-POP! CLICKETY-CLICKETY-POP! With every pop, Wylder bumped closer to the edge of the flatcar. He caught a confused picture of people at the crossing screaming and pointing. Isadora was cutting the ropes holding the basket of her balloon in place. Nelly worked the gas pump as the colorful bag inflated, stamping out flames when they got too close. Her boots were charred tatters.

“How much longer, Auntie?” she yelled. “If fire hits the gas line, we’re all going to kingdom come.”

Wylder was woozy from all the smoke. A piece of burning rope landed on the open page. He brushed it off. The train lurched around a bend. The wheels shrieked. Wind tried to tug the comic out of his hands. Pages flapped and turned.

THWIP, THWIP, THWIP, THWIP!

Stop. Drop. And roll. That’s what Addy remembered from the fire drills at school.

But was that supposed to help if you were burning? Or was it to avoid the smoke? Didn’t matter, since she wasn’t exactly in control here. She was being rolled from one page to the next whether she liked it or not. The places they’d seen and characters they’d met raced past in a dizzying blur. Addy’s head was woozy as she jostled and jounced, faintly aware that Uncle Vim and Wylder were jostling and jouncing along with her.

Until, suddenly, the air changed. The warmth was not only from smoke and fire. This warmth was balmy and sweet-smelling, carried on a breeze and rustling with palm fronds and frangipangi leaves.

Addy managed to shriek despite her mouth being full of what tasted like dust.

Wylder’s hand froze in midair.

Uncle Vim lay face up, panting like an old dog after a game of fetch. Addy blinked and pushed the hair out of her eyes.

They were exactly where they needed to be.

Wylder heard Addy calling to him as if from a great distance. He was tired and confused and full of smoke. His fingertips tingled and burned.

Was the fire out? Had they got their stuff? Was the comic safe? Time to go. That’s what Addy was saying. He shook his head and retched. For a second, his mind cleared.

He turned a page, he hoped for the last time.

THWIP!

“WYLDER WALLACE?!”

The roaring in his ears might have been Uncle Vim, and it might have been the end of the world.