“Tyler?” A voice behind him. He turns to see Paul Enfield, his black skin shining in the orange glow. He seems even bigger in the darkened room, a great hulking shadow of a man. “Get out!” he shouts, but Tyler can’t move.

He watches Paul leap Wentworth’s junk like an Olympian hurdler. He sees the fireman lean in to the armchair, put his head under Wentworth’s arm. What’s he doing? He straightens again, heaves the old man onto his shoulder in one fluid movement. It’s called a fireman’s lift, Tyler thinks absently. He tries to speak but all he can do is cough. Why is it so hard to breathe?

“Adam!” The shock of his name hits him like ice-cold water in the face. “The house is on fire. You need to move!” Paul is already hurtling away from him out of the room.

And now he sees the room burning. The ceiling blisters and rains fire down across newspaper and upholstery alike. Now his feet come back to life, but even as they do he hears the dog bark again. He turns without thinking and steps through the kitchen doorway into hell. The walls are alive with flames, as though the room has become one giant oven. He can hear the dog barking behind the door that leads down into the cellar. Clawing and scratching, fighting to get out. Just like Gerald Cartwright. He reaches for the handle without even thinking about it.

“No!”

Time slows, elongating Paul Enfield’s scream into one long syllable, and within that split second Tyler knows the mistake he’s made even as he makes it. He opens the door. Time stops. An unmistakable pause, like the change in air pressure the moment before a thunderstorm. And then the fire is coming for him, reaching out to take him in a crackling embrace. He drops low, sweeps the dog into his arms, turns to run, all in one fluid movement. Paul is there, grabbing his arm in a tight grip, propelling him forward. Then Paul is behind him, pushing him. The living room is an inferno, fire running in mercurial streams from one pile of kindling to another. Then they’re through, Paul hitting him on the back, thumping him again and again. It hurts. He wants to tell the man to stop but there isn’t time and he’s not sure he can speak anyway. Into the hallway now, the air from the door ahead deliciously cool. Through the door. His feet try to fall out from under him but still Paul pushes him on. Through the gate, past the car. Surely they’ll stop soon?