Chapter 18: Fire in the Cellar

Beto swung the truck onto the emergency lane of the county hospital and stopped under the red sign.

"Papa first," Joaquin said.

"Papa first," I agreed, and my voice cracked.

My father's good hand moved on the blanket.

"Go," he said.

Beto came around and lifted him out of Joaquin's arms with a grunt.

"I'll sit on him," Beto said. "Nobody gets past me and a nurses' station. Go home, mija. Go save our house."

Joaquin slid behind the wheel, and I got in beside him.

He drove with both hands wrapped around it and did not touch the brake once.

The warehouse district was dark and empty when we turned onto Fifth.

Two red cans lay tipped at the loading dock, and the smell of gasoline hit us from fifty feet away.

Six men in dark jackets stood on the dock.

Behind them, thirty of my fighters were packed into the stairwell, holding the top step with their shoulders.

Someone had dragged benches across the doorway.

The boy who swept the floor sat on a bench with a fire extinguisher in both arms and a face full of terror and stubbornness.

"We've got the stairs," he yelled when he saw me. "They tried to pour it down, and we shoved the can back up their arms!"

"Where's the match?" Joaquin said.

"The man in the middle has a lighter."

The man in the middle was thumbing the wheel of a silver lighter with a sparking flint.

Behind him, in a charcoal overcoat, with a red can dangling from his hand, stood Tomas.

His hair was wet with sweat, and his face was wild.

"Mama told me to come," he said when he saw me. "She told me to make sure."

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