Just after Jack’s twelfth birthday, late one May night, the ringing of the telephone woke him from a dead sleep. He heard his father running down the stairs; only then did his brain register that the fire bell was clanging in town. He jumped out of bed, shoved his legs into pants and his feet into shoes, then ran across the hall and woke Chase. They ran downstairs and out to the garage, cranked the car for their father, and jumped in behind him. John drove as fast as the car would go, down First Street, across the bridge, out the Mill Road. Jack and Chase exchanged glances, thrilled at the speed, the looming adventure, their arms in goose bumps not just from the chill of the night air. On the horizon, they could see the orange heat leaping against the darkness.

They stayed at the mill until the fire had been extinguished and dawn emerged with its revelations. The shells of the buildings remained, soot-crusted, stinking, and soaked with water that had been pumped through the fire department’s hoses out of the millpond. The mill was clearly a total loss. “I’m sorry, son,” John said, laying his hand on Jack’s shoulder; for years, John had been telling Jack that he would run the mill, when he was old enough.

After the excitement of the fire, the gray dawn was like a wet rag on the back of the neck. Jack’s eyes were itching from fatigue; if he was like his brother, the soot on his lashes had something to do with it, too.

The fire chief, whom Jack recognized even through the smut on his face as one of the men who bossed the other men at the mill, came up beside Jack’s father. “You’ll rebuild, won’t you, Mr. Mickelson?” the chief said, wiping his blackened hands on a rag.

“We’ll have to see, Karl,” said Jack’s father.

Using that tone.