“I’ll let you down!” I shouted to Violet, who nodded as I grabbed hold of her arms. She lay on her belly facing me and let her legs dangle over the side, then inched herself backward until her stomach was against the roof’s edge. Gripping her tightly by the wrists, I lowered her down slowly until there was about a five-foot gap between her and the mattress. She landed feetfirst, her hand hitting the ground. She was okay.

Mr. Allen remained unconscious, and time was tight; I didn’t want us to be up there when the next explosion or collapse came. I positioned him as I had Violet, but I had to push him slowly over the roof’s edge with my feet while hanging on to his arms.

“Dad!” Violet was crying as her father dangled above her.

I jutted my arms forward and let go, and he plunged backward, hitting the mattress with his shoulder blades, his neck not snapping back too far. That was a bull’s-eye as far as I was concerned.

I signaled for Violet to get him out of the way, because here I came, landing in a crouch. I hoisted Mr. Allen around to the front and deposited him onto the street as Violet hovered over him.

“Is he okay?” I could see—more than hear—her asking.

“I think so!” I shouted back.

She hugged me with such force that her pristine purple fingernails dug into the back of my neck. Her sobs were so fierce that I could barely make out the words she was trying to say: “You! Saved! Us!”

Maybe this was my superhero moment after all, though I was too exhausted, wired, and freaked out to indulge that thought. As if I needed any more reminders of how sobering this scene was, I looked back at my house and saw that the entire second floor was on fire. Orange light illuminated the window to my room, engulfing everything I owned.

I did a 360 to take in the destruction around me. What else could I do? Was there anyone left to rescue? Wait, where was Henry?

I looked at the Allens’ barn, which was set back from the house and wasn’t on fire, though it had a dangerous lean, as if it might collapse at any moment. Next to it was their propane tank, which looked unscathed with no fire around it. It probably was okay.

Wait.

I ran back to the Carters’ house. Like most of the farms out here, the Carters had a five-hundred-gallon propane tank, but now it was gone, no trace. That must’ve been it; the tank had exploded. But how? Why? Had a car hit it? It was close to their house but not next to the driveway, so that seemed far-fetched. But so did all of this.

My mom and Charlie were standing in the street, watching our house, which had been in our family for more than a century, up in flames. I looked down the street toward the Moores’ house but couldn’t see Maggie or much of anything else. Smoke was everywhere, a billowing dirty cloud rising above our neighborhood.