Watch me.
The fire whispered the invitation like one of Maggie St. John’s playmates.
I’ll dance for you.
And from that moment it had her. The ten-year-old was caught in the spell, frozen in the doorway of her upstairs bedroom. Relentless heat rolled over her from below. The alarm screamed above her, and her eyes burned from the smoke that rose and hovered—trapped against the high ceiling of the two-story entryway. But she didn’t move, couldn’t move.
The flames were terrible and beautiful, creeping up the winding staircase, consuming the first step in their path. They were coming for her. All she had to do was wait, and the fire would take her.
Some days Maggie created fire. Most days Maggie dreamed of fire.
And every day she hated it, because she was afraid of it, of what it could do.
Fear began to penetrate the numbness as she sucked in a breath of the hot, smoky air, almost choking herself. Coughing made her light-headed. She swayed and tightened her hand on the knob of the open bedroom door.
Get out. The command rang in her head. Get out!
Maggie dropped to her knees, terrified of the fire, terrified of her fear, ashamed because the flames had paralyzed her. She crawled backward so fast, the carpet burned her knees, but she didn’t get up. The air was better down there. It didn’t hurt so much to breathe.
Blindly she obeyed the voice in her head. By the time she reached the window she desperately wanted out, but her hands were shaking so badly, she couldn’t undo the stubborn latch.
“No! You have to open,” she begged. “Please. Oh please, oh please.”
The latch swung, and she heaved the old warped window up with as much strength as she had in her thin arms. Even so, the opening was barely wide enough for her to squeeze through. By the time she finally collapsed on the front lawn, she was battered and scraped over most of her body. Something was wrong with her ankle, too—from the fall—but she didn’t care. She was out. The fire didn’t get her. She beat it.
In the distance she could hear the siren of the parish’s volunteer fire department and wondered who could have called them so quickly. The light of the flames was just beginning to creep toward the front windows of the big white house. A column of smoke was just beginning to sneak out the raised window.
And that’s when she remembered Sarah.
Maggie’s scream was lost in the wail of the approaching siren.