The alarm’s wail faded as the memories of screaming men took over. Instead of a smoke-filled hallway, Danny saw bodies and blood and fire. Heat seared his skin. The pungent odor of burning motor oil filled his nose. His heartbeat slammed through his chest. Lights danced across his vision like a swirling disco ball.

Stop! He shook his head and blinked hard. You are in Maine, not Iraq. He wasted a few precious seconds sorting reality and flashback. If he didn’t get out of this house, it wasn’t going to matter much. Dead was dead, no matter where it happened.

He padded to the doorway barefoot and in his boxers. Down the hall, flames engulfed the living room. Smoke filled the top half of the space. He was not going out that way. Coughing, he stepped into his jeans and running shoes, then swiped his keys, cell phone, and wallet from the dresser. He threw everything into his still-full duffel bag on the floor. His shaving kit, neatly packed on the vanity by the sink, followed. Eight years in the military had made him neat and ready to bug out at any moment. Good thing.

He crossed the room in two long strides. Three wide windows banked one side of the bedroom. He unlocked the first and pulled up on the sash. Nothing moved. Danny pulled harder, but the window wouldn’t budge. Was the wood swollen from the harsh winter? He glanced over his shoulder. Smoke was pouring into the room, obscuring his view of the doorway. His eyes burned and watered, and his lungs protested with a wracking cough. The remaining two windows were also stuck.

He dropped the duffel and picked up a heavy bronze lamp from the nightstand. He swung it like a baseball bat at the center of the window. Glass shattered. He swung again and again, until the he’d knocked out the entire pane.

Danny tossed his duffel bag out onto the grass. He snagged the comforter from the bed and laid it across the bottom sash so any stray shards wouldn’t slice his body on the way out. He gripped the window frame and carefully eased out feetfirst. He dropped to the grass, fell to his knees, and rolled away from the house.

Danny gathered his stuff and jogged to the rear of the yard. At the edge of the trees, he stopped, rested his hands on his knees, and coughed until his lungs threatened to evict themselves from his chest. Gradually, the damp air soothed his throat, and his frantic heart calmed the hell down.

He lifted his cell phone and squinted. The display blurred, and his eyes burned. He blinked until they cleared. Damn. No bars. He glanced up. Flames were dancing in the living room windows. The smoke alarm screamed over crackling of burning wood. He wasn’t going back in the house to use the phone.