He smiled. “Nah, but I’m solid. Just am. And solid’s not glamorous and it’s not for every girl. But I’m hoping it will be enough for you.”

“I’ve never done solid. For me, solid will be glamorous.”

“So two weeks—” Greg began, then stopped. He sat up, sniffed the air. “Do you smell smoke?”

I paused, sniffed. At first, I smelled only cheese and pepperoni, but then … “Yeah, I do.”

Suddenly, the smoke alarm split the air. I covered my ears, pushing back the chair.

Greg was already climbing to his feet, the detective, as well.

“You two, stay put—” the detective began.

Greg cut him off. “Not a chance. After that episode earlier this evening, most of these kids are heavily medicated. They’re not walking out of here. We’ll have to carry them.”

Greg headed for the door, placing his hand against it. “Cool to the touch,” he reported. He flung it open. Tendrils of smoke were wafting down the hall and we could hear the rapid patter of running feet.

Definitely not a drill. Greg and I looked at the cop. The cop looked back at us.

“First kid you see,” I informed the detective, “grab him or her and get down the stairs. Fourteen kids to go, and we’ll be right behind you.”

We got to work.

Karen led the charge. We found her positioned before the ward’s front doors, checklist in hand, wire-rimmed glasses askew on the tip of her nose. I still couldn’t see the cause of the smoke or feel any heat, but the hallway was noticeably hazy, smoke curling around Karen’s feet as she read off each child’s name in a firm, tight voice.

Ed stood nearby, preparing to take the first group of kids, a groggy trio Cecille was herding down the hall. She had them walking single file, their hand on the shoulder of the child in front of them, just as we’d practiced. The kids, still wearing pajamas, stumbled along, too tired to do anything other than what they were told.

Then a door flew open, and Jorge and Benny bolted out. They charged into the trio, knocking Aimee to the floor before leaping onto the sofas, hands clasped over their ears, each boy screeching louder than the alarm itself.

“You,” Karen ordered Greg. “Round up Benny and Jorge. And you,” she glanced at me, “you’ll take—”

“Evan,” Greg interrupted. “The new kid. We gave him a double dose of Ativan just two hours ago. Kid’s zonked out of his head.”

“All right.” Karen marked Evan’s name, turned back to me. “You get Evan. You”—she pointed at Greg—“you’re still on monkey duty.”

Greg headed for the leaping Benny and Jorge. I raced down the hall.