“There,” she said, pointing, “at the back of the building, in the basement windows.”

Slowly his vision focused on the dark, squarish bulk of the shelter. At first he didn’t see anything. Then he caught a flicker of something bright and angry against a pane of glass, low, at ground level. He waited a moment, saw it again. Flames.

He braced himself on the windowsill and tried to shake the cobwebs from his mind. “Call 911. Tell them to get here right away.” He squinted against the gloom, peering down the empty streets of Pioneer Square. “Why hasn’t the fire alarm gone off?”

She was on the phone behind him, lost in the dark. “That’s what I wondered. That’s why I didn’t call it in right away. You’d think if there was a fire, the alarm … Hello? This is Stefanie Winslow at 2701 Second Avenue. I want to report a fire at Fresh Start. Yes, I can see it from where I’m standing …”

She went on, giving her report to the dispatcher. John Ross moved away from the window to find his clothes. He tried a light switch and couldn’t get it to work, gave up, and dressed in the dark. He was still weak, still not functioning as he should, but the rush of adrenaline he had experienced on realizing what was happening had given him a start on his recovery. He pulled on jeans, shirt, and walking shoes, not bothering with socks or underwear, anxious to get moving. There should be someone on duty at the center. Whoever it was should have detected the smoke—should have answered the phone, too, when Stef called over to see what was wrong.

She was hanging up the phone behind him and heading for the door. “I’ve got to get over there, John!” she called back to him as she swept out into the living room.

“Stef, wait!”

“Catch up to me as quick as you can! I’ll wake as many people as I can find and try to get them out!”

The door slammed behind her. Cursing softly, he finished tying the laces of his shoes, stumbled through the darkness to the front closet, pulled on his all-weather coat, grabbed the black walking stick, and followed her out.

He didn’t waste time on the elevator, which was notoriously slow, heading instead for the stairs, taking them as quickly as he could manage with his bad leg, hearing her footsteps fading ahead of him followed by the closing of the stairway door below. His mind was clearer now, and his body was beginning to come around as well. He limped down the stairs in a swift shamble, using the walking stick and the railing for support, and he was into the entryway and out the front door in moments.

Rain beat down in torrents, and the streetlights were murky and diffuse in the storm-swept gloom. Second Avenue was deserted and eerily quiet. Where were the fire engines? He left the sidewalk and crossed through the downpour, head lowered against gusts of wind that blew the rain into his face with such force that he could barely make out where he was going.