The buzzing noise woke me from an already restless sleep. In my dream, it was Christmas morning. We were opening presents and all the boxes I’d wrapped so neatly had suddenly become empty. Or worse, they contained odd, inappropriate objects, like bottles of vodka for my four-year-old twin sons and a subscription to Guns & Ammo for my cousin Rose Noire, who couldn’t even stand to see anyone use a flyswatter for its intended purpose.

“What interesting choices,” Mother was murmuring, holding up the power drill that had been in her box. Where had the drill come from? And why did she keep turning it on and off, on and off, making that irritating noise?

Just then I woke up. I fumbled on my bedside table for my phone. It was a little past 4:00 A.M. December twenty-first, not the twenty-fifth.

“Only a dream,” I murmured.

The buzzing wasn’t coming from my phone and I could still hear it. Not a power drill. It appeared to be coming from Michael’s side of the bed, from under the pillow. Some battery-operated toy, perhaps, that the boys had dropped while Michael had been reading them How the Grinch Stole Christmas before bedtime?

Michael stirred.

“Blast.” His voice was sleepy and annoyed. Then he sat bolt upright and began searching frantically under his pillow.

“What is it?” I asked.

“My pager.” He found the offending object, pressed something, and the buzzing stopped. A female voice took its place.

“Box fourteen oh four for the structure fire. One thirteen Clay County Road. Engine companies fourteen and two, truck twelve, rescue squad two, ambulance fourteen respond. Oh four fourteen.”

I recognized the voice of Debbie Ann, the local police and emergency dispatcher. And the “oh four fourteen” part must be the time. As for the rest—

“We have a call!” Michael sounded excited and leaped out of bed.

My stomach clenched. Ever since Michael, in a burst of civic zeal, had joined the Caerphilly Volunteer Firefighters, I’d been dreading this moment. The pager had been his constant companion since he’d finished his training a week ago. And now here it was: His first fire.

The address sounded familiar, too. I had the feeling if I were a little more awake, I’d remember exactly what was located at 113 Clay County Road.

Michael dove into the walk-in closet.

“Maybe you should wake Rob,” he called over his shoulder.

“Doesn’t he have a pager, too?”

“You know Rob.”