Flashover. Dana Mentink

      Therefore as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.

      —Colossians 3:12–14

      To the everyday heroes who silently strive to lift

       others up, not for their own glory, but for His.

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER SIXTEEN

      CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

      CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

      CHAPTER NINETEEN

      CHAPTER TWENTY

      CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

      CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

      CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

      CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

      QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

      ONE

      Black smoke swelled in graceful scallops as it climbed in a thick column against the midday sun, mirroring the excitement that rose in her gut. Two-story structure fire, flames showing. Perfect.

      Ivy could see the thrill in Jeff’s face, too, accentuated by the strobing lights of the fire truck. “Finally, some action. My wife says I’ve been moping around because things have been so quiet. She offered to go out and set something on fire for me.”

      She laughed, tucking her razor-cut bob of sandy hair behind her ears as they both hopped down from the truck and jogged with their captain to meet Battalion Chief Adrienne Strong, who was already barking orders to the guys on the first engine. She looked small under her helmet and turnouts, but her brown eyes shone fiercely beneath a fringe of hair.

      “Got a report of a victim trapped inside.” She stabbed a finger at a member of the crowd that was massing on the sidewalk. “A witness says he saw the owner enter the building an hour ago. He’s short, a little nuts, goes by the name of Cyril. Nobody saw him come out.”

      Why did the name Cyril ring a bell? Ivy looked closely at the structure, which now had flames flickering through the upstairs windows. She could see outlines of boxes and furniture, stacked floor to ceiling. If the view was any indication, there would be only a small trail of usable space weaving throughout all the garbage. She sighed. “Oh, man. It looks like a Habitrail. He’s got enough junk to start his own flea market.”

      She buckled on the ax belt, waiting for the captain to turn off the utilities. Her muscles tensed in anticipation, fingers itching to put on the mask and get inside. Instinctively she looked around for Antonio, larger than life in his turnouts. Then she remembered. Antonio moved on, Ivy. You better do the same.

      When the captain gave the thumbs-up, Ivy started toward the structure.

      “Wait, Beria.” Strong talked again into the radio. “This is going to be ugly with all that garbage in there. Let’s get it ventilated first. Help them work the front door. Jeff, see if you can get any of those witnesses to confirm we have a victim in there.”

      Ivy joined the two firefighters who were attacking the front door with a pry tool. The door was heavy oak, and though they heaved with all their strength, the wood gave up only reluctantly. They alternately pushed the bar and kicked at the wood with their booted feet until the wood gave with a final groan. Clouds of blackness surged out, forcing them back.

      She returned to the chief in time to hear Jeff’s report.

      “No one can corroborate the story. The owner is apparently some kind of eccentric.”

      “No kidding,” Ivy muttered.

      Jeff raised his voice to be heard over the hum of the pumper and the whoosh of water thundering through the hose. “His schedule is erratic. No one saw him come out, but they weren’t looking, either.”

      They watched as a firefighter, barely visible except for the flash of the fluorescent tape on his turnouts, moved past them at the nozzle end of the two-hundred-foot hose, his captain behind, sweat already coating their faces under the breathing apparatus. Ducking as low as they could manage, the two made entry.

      Ivy looked past them as she and Jeff pulled on their own masks and picked their way to the door to peer inside. As she did so, she thought she saw movement from the trees next to the house. It was a glimpse really, a split-second look, but she could have sworn she saw Moe, her neighbor at the apartment complex. But what would he be doing here?

      She jogged over. It was Moe, and he was shivering. “What’s wrong?”

      “Cyril,” he said, pointing to the house then bounding away. Who was Cyril?

      She refocused her attention on the house. The place was indeed a maze of junk, piled against all the walls and in towering columns in the foyer and front rooms. She strained her eyes to get a glimpse of a human form but blackness obscured everything.

      Strong’s radio crackled to life and she called to them. “Engine Twenty-Five is en route from a spill in Pine Grove. Their ETA is five minutes. Beria and Jones, you wait. I’m going to pull the other crew in another minute.”

      Ivy huffed as they trotted back. Wait? What if this Cyril guy was inside? What if he was trapped, shouting for help, and she was