There. A spike of bone protruding through the skin of her upper arm. Maybe Joseph hit her, or maybe she tried to shoulder-barge the door. She probably fainted when she saw the injury, or felt the pain, or lost too much blood.

I can’t carry her back out the window. Even if we managed to get through the frame without slicing something critical, she’s too heavy to carry one-handed.

I hold the bat with both hands and ram it against the part of the door where the bolt was. No good. The bolt’s on the outside, but the door opens inwards. The frame is too solid.

Instead I wedge the rim at the end of the bat’s handle under the bottom of the door, and tilt the bat backwards.

There’s a creak. I keep pulling.

The leverage forces the door upwards until the hinges snap. The door sags sideways. I rip it out of the frame and it topples over, narrowly missing Francine.

The smoke floods through, and I choke. It smells like bleach, as well as gasoline. The guy who threw the Molotov must have added some extra ingredients when he mixed it, turning the bomb into a chemical weapon. The smoke cloud is toxic.

I lift Francine over my shoulder, facing forwards rather than backwards so I can hold her nose and mouth shut. Breathing nothing is better than breathing bleach. Then I carry her out of the room and stagger through the smoke to the bathroom.

Holding my breath, I grab a hand towel and drench it with water. Then I use it to cover Francine’s face—easier than keeping her nose pinched shut and her mouth closed with one hand.

The stairs look like a gateway to hell. Smoke flooding up them, fire glowing at the bottom. The heat dries out my face and hands. I close my stinging eyes and go by feel, fumbling for each step. I need both hands to keep Francine on my shoulder and to keep the towel over her face. My lungs are bursting.

The ground floor feels like an inferno. I can’t open my eyes. There’s crackling and spitting all around me. Luckily, I memorised the layout of the house the last time I was here. I bump into the kitchen bench, which helps me to orientate myself. I work my way around it, headed for the lounge room.

Broken glass snaps underfoot. I must be at the window. A shard of it punches through the sole of my cheap shoe. Soon I’m squelching in my own blood. For a second I worry about leaving so much DNA behind, and then I remember that for once I’m not committing a crime.

When we reach the front door I reposition Francine so I have a free hand to work the handle.