“My uncle once was in such bad straits that he tore up the hardwood floors for firewood,” Jordan said. “My dad eventually replaced every single plank. If he’s still the man he used to be, this will devastate him. None of this house will survive. It’ll all be taken apart by backhoes and bulldozers.”

“But he’ll be grateful you’re all okay,” I said.

Jordan looked me intensely in the eyes. “Charlie would’ve died if not for you, Maggie. I’ll always remember that.”

“Oh,” I said, turning away, “he was fine.”

We stepped up to the front door, and, with what was meant to be a gentle tug, Jordan pulled it off its hinges. Glass was strewn inside and outside where the windows had been. The air was like a steam bath with the overwhelming smell of burnt wet wood. He began to step inside before I said, “Wait, are you sure this is a good idea? The air seems terrible, and who knows how stable what’s left of the second story is?”

“There is no second story.”

“Exactly.”

Jordan stood there in the doorway, looking at the stairway that now led to nowhere.

“Thought I’d go up and grab my old magazines. They aren’t flammable, are they?” he asked with a straight face. He’d shown me his collection of 1960s- and 1970s-era Mad, Rolling Stone, Life, and National Lampoon issues, while above his bed had loomed a now-ironic The Towering Inferno poster: “One tiny spark becomes a night of blazing suspense.”

“I’m sorry, Jordan,” I said, and gave his hand a squeeze. He squeezed back without much feeling, then turned around to head out, kicking a little pile of rubble that was at his feet.

“Oh, jeez,” he said, picking up a half-melted plastic eyeball. “This is from Charlie’s stuffed animal, Froggy.”

He flicked it into the house.

“What a waste of time this was,” he said.

Jordan pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket, scrawled a note for his dad, and left it under a stone on a still-solid part of the front landing. We left without another word.

We walked back along Main Street, not holding hands, our smoky, soot-speckled shirts sticking to our increasingly sweaty bodies.

“Oh, shit,”I said.

“What?”

“Bud Winkle.”

There he was, hobnobbing with a couple of old-timers in front of Lammy’s Hardware. I placed my hand on Jordan’s elbow to redirect him across the street, but it was too late.

“Maggie Gooding, as I live and breathe!” Bud exclaimed, and excused himself from his friends to step over to us.

He was tall and fit, with pronounced cheekbones and a full head of blond hair combed back slickly. His eyes were the palest blue I’d ever seen, and his resting face was a kindly smile. I should’ve considered him a handsome man—many women in town did—but every time I saw him, I just wanted to get away.

“Hello, Mr. Winkle,” I said softly.

“I’m Bud!” he responded, sticking out his hand to shake Jordan’s before giving me a big pat on the shoulder. “No formalities here. I hear you two are heroes.”