“Vanessa!” I screamed, pounding on the door. “Open this door!”

From the other side, I heard footsteps.

For a brief second, hope rose in my chest.

Then my sister’s voice came through the door, low and trembling. “I’m sorry, Rachel.”

Emma started crying.

“What did you do?” I screamed.

Vanessa didn’t reply. Her footsteps faded away.

Smoke thickened along the ceiling, creeping into the dining room like a living thing. I pulled out my phone.

No signal.

The townhouse had always had poor reception, and Vanessa knew that.

I dragged Emma toward the back door. Locked. The kitchen window had security bars. The living room window was painted shut, and the smoke was already turning the room gray.

I wrapped a dish towel around my fist and smashed it into the glass cabinet, grabbed the heaviest pan I could find, and struck the window frame. Wood cracked. Emma coughed behind me.

“Mommy, I’m scared.”

“I know,” I said, even as my own voice shook. “But listen to me. We are getting out.”

The alarm wailed. Smoke scorched my throat. Somewhere upstairs, something crashed.

I lifted Emma onto the counter beneath the narrow kitchen window, the only one without bars. It was too small for me.

But maybe not for her.

I shattered the glass, cleared the sharp edges with a towel, and looked into my daughter’s frightened eyes.

“Emma,” I said, “you’re going first.”

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