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Desiree pulled the radio to her mouth. “County Arson, responding,” she said, and started running.
The Sweet Bloom Community Center had the same tired bricks as every other municipal building in the area. A banner, hand-painted in green and gold, sagged across the entrance: “CHRISTMAS PAGEANT—DEC. 23 7 p.m.” That was tonight, which meant the children were inside practicing.
As she got closer, she noticed the window glass was already filmed black with smoke. On one side of the building, tongues of fire flickered at the seam where the roof met the awning.
Brandon was running the response, barking orders, moving his hands in sharp cuts through the air. Ruiz and one of the probies were handling a hose from the east side while the other rookie was dragging a hose to the west.
Children in Nativity costumes were clustered in the parking lot, shivering and barefoot, blinking at the December air. Two teachers were counting heads, but their math was coming up short. The youngest kid was a shepherd, the crook taller than he was; the oldest looked like he’d been roped into being Joseph, his towel headdress held on by a rubber band. Several kids wore foil halos snapped to headbands that reflected the fire’s light in bright bursts.
Desiree found Brandon at the perimeter, jaw so tight the muscle stood out even through the soot. He gave her a nod—quick, all business—and pulled her aside. “It started in the storage off the east hallway. Fire doors are holding, but for how long I don’t know. We’re missing two kids, a boy and a girl, supposed to be in the rehearsal room. Last visual said west corridor was passable for maybe another ten minutes.”
She adjusted her field pack, already moving. “Who else is in there?”
“Kimble is inside, but he needs help looking for those kids. I’ve got the rest of the team trying to get the flames under control right now. I’m going in right now to assist Kimble.” He checked the air meter clipped to his chest, then lowered his voice: “Stay out here and be my eyes.”
She nodded. “You’ve got it.”
He held her gaze a moment longer than necessary, then bowed his head, lips moving in a silent, practiced prayer. She’d seen him do it before, and she joined in, sending up her own prayer for protection not only for them, but for anyone else still inside.
A moment later, Brandon pulled his mask down and vanished inside the burning building.
Desiree looped around the outside of the building, looking for anything out of place. On the back side, she noticed a door propped open with a scorched metal stand. She inched closer and noticed the hallway was filled with smoke. Ceiling tiles were sweating, plastic pipes overhead sagging.
She heard coughing, thin and high, and without thinking, followed it. Down the hall, under a folding table, two kids crouched: the boy clutching a stuffed sheep, the girl in a blue angel gown stained black at the hem. They were both crying, faces smudged with black soot. Desiree dropped to one knee and reached out to them. “It’s okay. I’m here to get you out.” She radioed in that she found the kids, then continued speaking to them. “Stay low and stay with me at all times.”
The girl nodded; the boy didn’t, but both crawled toward her. She put a hand on each of their backs, feeling the knobbiness of their spines even through the thick costumes. She guided them toward the exit, not running, not rushing, just one step at a time. She could hear the fire behind her, the hissing and popping as the wood frame surrendered. Every step, she counted—one, two, three—never letting her mind wander.
They reached the door, nearly falling through it into the cold air. She hustled them straight to the waiting paramedics, ready to check them out.
One of the teachers rushed over with relief in her eyes. “Thank you so much for finding them.”
“Of course, I’m just glad they are all right.”
That’s when Desire remembered that Brandon was still inside. She turned back to the building, doing her best not to let panic set in. He was trained for this—he knew what he was doing. She had to trust that he would be okay.
A few moments later, a side door banged open, and Brandon stumbled out, a third child in his arms. The little girl’s foil halo was twisted, the tinsel singed, but she clung to him like a life preserver.
He didn’t set her down until he reached the curb, where the paramedics took her, hands quick and sure. Brandon knelt on the parking lot’s asphalt, head lowered, breath ragged as he pulled off his helmet. Soot caked the sweat at his hairline, and his hands shook just enough for Desiree to notice.
She walked over, crouched, so their faces were level. “Are you good?”
He looked up, blinked once, then nodded. “I’m fine. You?”
She realized her gloves were trembling, fingertips buzzing from adrenaline or shock. She pulled them off and flexed her fingers until the tremor subsided. “Nothing new. East corridor, right? That’s the ignition point?”
Brandon climbed to his feet, every motion controlled, careful. “Yeah. Storage room on the left, just past the kitchen. Give it ten minutes to cool, or you’ll get steam burns.”
She went to step past him, but he blocked her with a forearm, gentle but firm. “I mean it, Desiree. Ten minutes.”
Her eyes narrowed for a minute as she looked at him, but she backed down when she saw the ferocity in his eyes. She nodded once sharply. “I’ll give it ten.”
Desiree watched as the fire’s progression was halted. She clocked every new color in the smoke, and waited as it moved from nearly black, to gray, to nearly white. Even in the chaos, she could feel Brandon’s gaze flicking to her and back to the building, as if he didn’t trust either one out of his sight.
Once the ten minutes were up, she ducked past the caution tape and walked the scorched hall, radio clipped high and camera in her palm. The ignition site was easy to spot. The storage room door hung off one hinge, the metal knob blackened from flame. Along the baseboard, the same telltale pour pattern. Near the back wall, a melted plastic jug wedged behind a rack of angel wings—probably once a gallon, now a puddle with a scorched handle. She photographed it from every angle, bracing the lens against the stuttering in her hands.
Desiree crouched low, squinted at the edge of the char, and found residue that matched the previous scenes. Every detail was the same. She logged, bagged, labeled, and taped off her samples. This was her rhythm, and she fell into it like it was a second language—collect, confirm, catalog. There was comfort in the routine, even as the evidence pointed to the escalation she had been fearing. Up until now, the arsonist hadn’t targeted buildings with people in them. But this morning, he decided to up the ante, not only with people, but children practicing for the town’s most precious Christmas tradition. It was calculating and malicious all at the same time.
When she stepped back outside, Brandon was waiting by his truck. The parking lot was mostly empty now; the kids and teachers were gone, and so was the news van, but the smell of burned wood and metal was everywhere.
