THE APARTMENT was finally quiet now that April and Grant were asleep in bed. Willy Daugherty sat on the sofa in the living room with the television on low, because he had learned the hard way how sound traveled through this place. Shortly after moving in a year ago, he had been watching a movie when an explosion onscreen brought Grant running out of his room and leaping onto his lap, and cries from April, who was then fourteen months old. Now, once the kids were in bed, the volume never went above ten, but still he cringed at the loud parts. The last thing four-year-old Grant ever wanted was to go to bed. He was active from the time he got up in the morning until Willy managed to coax him into bed with at least two stories and a song. But it used to take longer, so at least things were improving. April was a sweetheart, spending her days trying to keep up with her older brother, so usually she fell right asleep. Willy smiled as he thought of the kids—his kids—and then turned his attention to the television. He’d found a movie on Netflix, but it was probably a bad idea at this time of night because of what he knew was coming: screaming and dragon cries as Millie Bobbie Brown was about to be sacrificed to the dragon. He turned off the television and carefully padded down the short hallway to his room, where he slipped out of his clothes and pulled on a pair of light pajamas. With two kids, he had learned some time ago to wear something to bed, just in case. Then he brushed his teeth and slipped between the sheets. “Marky, I miss you,” he said quietly into the darkness. Over the past fifteen months, he had stopped listening for a reply, though he still wished for one. It was stupid, and he knew that. Mark wasn’t coming back. A snowy late-night car accident on his way home from work at one of the warehouses outside Carlisle had resulted in Mark’s car exploding. So after three years and two kids, Willy had found himself alone again. At first Grant had asked where Papa was, but over time, he had stopped. Willy was pretty sure that he was the only one in their apartment who remembered him now, though there were pictures, with one hanging in the kids’ room. He liked to think of Mark watching over them. He hated that he was getting maudlin again. Pushing away the sense of loss as best he could, Willy rolled over and closed his eyes. He had to get the kids up, fed, and to the Dickinson College daycare before eight, so his day started early, with his first class beginning at nine. Thankfully it didn’t take long before fatigue set in and sleep overtook him. WILLY DREAMED that he couldn’t find his way out of the fog. He had had the dream before, and he always found himself in a cloud bank and could never get out. He could see nothing, yet somehow he knew that there was a cliff, and all it would take was one wrong step and he’d fall into oblivion. Only this time it was worse, because he kept coughing. Maybe this wasn’t fog, but smoke. That would teach him to watch a movie with fire-breathing dragons before going to bed. He coughed again, realizing he wasn’t totally asleep. Sitting up in bed, he reached for the light next to him, but nothing happened. The room was dark, with only the light from outside coming in. He coughed hard, realizing the smoke was real. Fire. There was a fire. Willy rolled out of bed and onto the floor. It was a little better there. He crawled to the door and out into the hall, where it was worse. A crash somewhere in the building made him move faster. He opened the door to the kids’ room and closed it again behind him. There wasn’t much smoke in there. He lifted April out of her crib, and she went right into his arms. “Grant, wake up,” he said firmly. “We need to get out.” He heard the rising panic in his voice. “Daddy.” Grant rubbed his eyes. “Stand up on the bed,” Willy said. He grabbed Grant’s blanket and handed it to him. “Put this over your head.”