Chapter 8: Arson

I got down on the floor where the air was clean and pulled my coat over my mouth.

The fire ate the bottom of the door and climbed the cedar wall.

The heat on my face felt like an open oven.

I grabbed my mother's quilt off the bed and beat at the flames, and they laughed at me.

"Maeve!"

A voice came through the roar, and a heavy blow hit the door.

"Maeve, get back from the door!"

It was Rafe.

I scrambled to the far wall and covered my head.

A second blow came, and a third, and the bar outside splintered with a crack like a gunshot.

The door burst inward in a spray of burning wood.

Rafe came through it with a fire axe in his hand and his sleeve already on fire.

He saw me, dropped the axe and caught me up in both arms.

"I've got you."

"The notebook," I said, choking.

"Is it on you?"

"In my coat."

"Then we're leaving."

He ran.

The planks of the pier shook under his boots, and I felt the heat on my back and then the cold wind on my face.

He did not stop until we reached the lawn.

He set me down on the grass and dropped beside me, slapping out his sleeve, and I coughed up what felt like half the harbor.

"Are you hurt?" he said, and took my face in both hands.

"No."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not hurt. You're burning."

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