Lottie wipes her nose on her sleeve, and I want to tell her to cheer up. We did it. We saved the school shop, and now’s not the time for tears. Be happy. Be grateful. Smile. Mother’s voice inside my head tells me how to behave and what to say. This time, I ignore it and lay my cheek against my knee. My throat tightens, and my eyes water. I cry in small, hard sobs that rack my body. I cry for more than the fire. I cry for Mother and Rian and Father so far away, and how close Lottie and I came to dying.

• • •

Mrs. Vincent backs the pickup truck around the corner from the school shop, and students of both sexes jump from the tray with brimming buckets of water. They extinguish the remaining embers, and thick smoke billows from the burned woods. Lottie and I make a half-hearted attempt to get up and help, but Mrs. Vincent shoos us away.

“Find clean air and have a rest,” she says. “You’ve both had enough fire for today.”

She’s right. We are dazed and hollow, and I want to lie down and sleep for a week. Maybe two. We rescue our abandoned pangas from the edge of the woods and drag our way toward the senior-girls’ dorm. Images of the fire churn through my mind, but I’m too tired to make a sound or leak another tear. Lottie walks beside me, pale and listless. I doubt she cries very often, and maybe she’s embarrassed by her tears now that we’re out of danger.

I want to know what she’s feeling: Does the cut on her bottom lip hurt? How long will it take to rebuild the wall inside her? A day, a week, or a month? I keep my mouth shut and hold the silence. There’s a strange comfort in our shared exhaustion, and fighting the fire has moved us beyond words. Together, we experienced what it was to stand before the towering flames. And beat them.

The school grounds are empty, and lantern light from Mrs. Thomas’s house guides us through the darkness. Behind us, students help put out what’s left of the fires behind the school shop and near the sports field, so we are alone. When we reach the storage shed, I crouch by the door and roll down my sock to find the key while Lottie holds the pangas.

It’s heat-sealed to my skin, and I wince as I peel it away to reveal a key-shaped imprint seared onto my ankle. The fire has marked me inside and out. I unlock the shed door and move aside to let the light from Mrs. Thomas’s living room shine into the interior. Lottie stops and tilts her head. She listens.

“What?” I whisper, and she hands me my panga. My heart nudges my ribs, and I hold still. I listen. Soft sounds come from the Christ-thorns, and Lottie lifts her panga, ready to strike down whatever’s hiding in the shadows. I do the same, except my hand shakes and the panga blade twitches from side to side like it’s dancing.