The day after my twelve-year-old hauled a screaming toddler out of a burning shed, I found an envelope sitting on our welcome mat. Thick, cream paper. My name in shaky ink. “Come with your son to the red limousine by Lincoln Middle School. 5 a.m. Do not ignore this. — J.W.” It sounded like a prank—until the dread in my stomach said it wasn’t. The fire had started at a backyard block party the afternoon before. Burgers on the grill, cider steaming in mugs, kids sticky with popsicles. Then the shed behind the Martinez house went from harmless smoke to...
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