Three

“Hank! Get out of the way!” Dad yells. He’s dousing me with water from his hose.

Only I can’t get out of the way. If Cleo runs back into the barn this time, that’s it. She’ll be burned alive.

I explode into action. “You get! Shoo!” I wave my arms at Cleo like a madman. “Go on!” I stamp my feet. I scream. I make noises I didn’t know I had in me.

Dad turns the hose on Cleo. “Yeeehaw! Move!”

Cleo slows but keeps coming.

Dad moves the hose to spray her face.

“Get!” I scream. I run at her, arms flailing. I’m whooping and jumping and stamping. The horse rears, then pivots and takes off away from the barn at a full gallop.

Dad grabs my arm and pulls me clear of the barn. Something crashes behind me. “Hank, get away! You’re too close. It’s going to go!”

I feel him drag me away. I hear the creaking and groaning of the barn behind me. But all I can see is beautiful Cleopatra, her tail held high as she races away, zigzagging through the pasture. I can’t take my eyes off her. She doesn’t slow as she nears the fence. I think she’s going to run straight into it.

Then she jumps. She sails. She flies. Without missing a stride, she lands and keeps on galloping.

“You saved her, Son.” Dad’s arm is around my bare shoulder. It hurts like I’ve been sunburned. I’m hot, then cold. Dad pulls me farther away from the fire-engulfed barn. “You saved that horse’s life.”

Saved her for what? What kind of a life can that horse possibly have now? Cleo will never understand what I did. She’ll never trust anybody. Not after this.

“They’re coming! Hear that?” Dad shouts.

Then I hear the sirens.

“Hank?” He points to the road. He slips out of his fire jacket, takes off his flannel shirt underneath, and holds it out to me. When I don’t take it, he puts it on me himself.

Four fire trucks are speeding down our dirt road. They’re barely visible in the clouds of dust they’re stirring up. Sirens blare, getting louder and louder.

I feel like I’m watching the trucks on TV. And I’m thinking—as if the whole scene has nothing to do with me—Nice has only two fire trucks. Wonder where they got the other trucks.

But it’s not television. The trucks are real. They’re turning up our drive and bringing their sirens with them.

One of Wes’s dogs breaks loose and races, barking, at the lead red fire truck.

Dad waves his arms like we’re waiting to be rescued from a desert island. “We’re here!” he cries. Like they can’t see the flames. Like they can’t see the black smoke covering our little piece of earth.

“Hank, that’s your mother’s van!”

My eyes are blurry. I have to blink several times before I can see her. She’s driving close behind the last truck. I cough again, convulsing with the force of the coughs. It feels like my throat is on fire. And it’s hot, so hot.

“Kat must have called my Annie at the hospital,” Dad says, waving at Mom.

I can tell he wants to run and meet her van. But he’s still holding that little hose on the fire. And that makes me want to laugh. The water trickles onto ashes now. How does that saying go? “It’s like closing the barn door after the horse is out.”

“What did you say?” Dad asks.

“Nothing.” My mind is numb. My fingers tingle. I look down at my left hand, and my fingertips are black.

“I need to see my Annie,” Dad says. “I should tell her what’s going on.”

“I think she knows, Dad.” Again, I feel like laughing. It’s the strangest sensation, like I’m caught between crying and laughter with no room in between. I watch the flames like we watch fireworks on the Fourth of July. Fire is beautiful. How could I not have known that?

“Still,” Dad says, “I need to talk to your mother.” He glances to the end of the driveway, where the van stops. The fire engines keep plowing up the drive, past the house, over the leaf-covered lawn to us.

Dad stares at the pitiful stream of water from the garden hose. Then he lays it down, finally seeing what I see.

It’s no use.

“You’re still too close to the barn, Hank.” Dad grabs my arm and pulls.

I stumble backwards, unable to take my gaze off the flames.

“Will you be all right if I go to your mother?” Dad asks.

“I’m all right.” My voice is calm, warm. My throat is still on fire. My stomach feels like flames are jumping back and forth inside of me.

“Just stay out of the way!” Dad shouts. He’s already jogging around the barn, heading for Mom.

I hear the firemen shouting instructions at each other, but I can’t see them through the bank of smoke.

I’m here alone with the fire.

And God.

Because God is everywhere. I’ve believed that since I was five years old and maybe before that.

“Why did You let this happen?” I whisper. I’m talking to God, but it doesn’t feel like prayer. “Why?” I say it louder. “Why couldn’t You have caught that circus on fire? Or all those barns where people abuse Your creatures? Why us? Why did You let this happen to the Rescue?”

There’s no answer.

I’ve known Jesus since I was five too. I’ve never doubted that He hears me when I pray.

Only I’m doubting it now.

I hear a whinny, long and loud.

Starlight.

I hear the whinny again, filled with terror.

For a second my heart leaps, and I’m ready to race into the barn again. Only then I remember. My horse is not in the barn. I move around to the side of the barn until I can see Starlight through the smoke and confusion.

Dakota hasn’t stayed where I told her to, but she’s still on her horse and holding mine. She’s talking to a man I can’t make out. Another man stands behind them, and I think he’s got a camera. Behind Mom’s van is a white van with WXNJ News on the side.

Are we news?

The firemen have closed in on the barn like locusts. Like termites. Thick streams of water crisscross over the roof. The sizzles and swooshes mix with the crackling of the fire. It’s a sound and light show, only with water and fire.

“Hey! There’s a kid back here!” One of the firemen I’ve never seen before runs up to me. “You! Get out of here!”

When I don’t move—I can’t move—he charges at me.

“Lou! That’s Hank. Chester’s boy.” Mr. McCarthy jogs toward me. I’ve known “Mac” for as long as I can remember.

“I don’t care who he is!” the other guy shouts. “Get him out of here!”

Mac puts his arm around my shoulder just like Dad did.

I wonder if they teach them that in firefighter’s school. I don’t think I’m thinking straight. But I have to. I’m Hank Coolidge, the logical one. I should be able to think straight. Maybe my logic got burned in the fire.

“Come on, Hank,” Mac pleads. “I’m real sorry about all this. But you can’t stay here. I  think we’ve got the fire under control. But it could spark up on us again.” Mac waits for me to say something.

I have nothing to say.

“Are you okay?” he asks, squinting up at me.

I’m taller than him. I’m taller than Dad. I’m taller than everybody.

“Did you get burned?” He steps back and looks me over, up and down. “Why don’t you go in the house, son? Let us take it from here.”

I frown at Mac. I think he and Dad joined the volunteer fire department the same day.

“Hank, are you okay?” He gives up on an answer. “I need you to move.” He’s talking like a fireman now, not an old friend or neighbor. He pulls out a roll of yellow tape and steps toward the barn.

Another fireman—I know him, but I can’t think of his name—takes the end of the yellow tape. Together they wind it around a tree and run it to the next tree.

And I get it. This is crime scene tape.

This is a crime scene.