Glass shattered somewhere up ahead.

Michael jumped and felt as if he were waking up. Somehow, he’d ended up on the floor. He fought to get to his hands and his knees, but his limbs felt too heavy. His shirt had come off his face.

More glass shattering. Then a loud crack.

Someone was in the house.

Michael got his hands beneath his shoulders, and he managed to push back, toward the kitchen. He needed to hide.

Left hand. Right hand. This was more difficult than he remembered.

The house was so dark.

He needed to find his brothers. He needed to warn them. He hit the cooking island with his hip, and it almost stole his balance. His head slammed into something, and flickering starbursts filled his vision.

He couldn’t tell which way was up. He couldn’t find his hands.

More starbursts. This felt like drowning again.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, and Michael flung himself back. Was this a Guide? Had they come after him? The smoky house, the lack of fire—all of a sudden this felt like a trap. Michael couldn’t see anything in the darkness, but his attacker wouldn’t be able to either. If they couldn’t see him, they couldn’t shoot him.

Every motion still felt slow, as if it took too long for messages to make it from his brain to his limbs. He barely had an opportunity to move before someone else grabbed him. Or was it the same person? He had no idea.

Something metal clicked, and Michael tried to swing a fist.

But then he inhaled, and his entire world clouded over.

Hannah heard Irish swear, and she swung her flashlight, trying to find him. The beam of light barely penetrated more than a few feet, and lit up nothing more than smoke in the hallway. But still, she didn’t need to feel along walls to navigate through the thick darkness.

She knew this house.

She knew this staircase. This wall. This archway. This kitchen, where Michael would make her coffee and ask her quietly about her day.

She’d known the door they had to break through to get in here. The windows she’d had to smash to release trapped heat and smoke.

She and Irish weren’t going to find anyone conscious in here.

They’d be lucky to find someone alive.

Her breath shook for a moment, loud behind her mask. Stop it. If she lost herself in thoughts, she’d never be able to get through this job.

Thoughts like how Michael and his brothers hadn’t been sitting out front, waiting anxiously for the fire trucks.

Thoughts of Michael’s hand pushing the hair back from her face. Or how he could be gruff and rough around the edges with everyone else, but his voice would go soft and gentle, just for her.

Thoughts of his brothers, who’d invited her and James into their mix without judgment.

“Michael,” she whispered, the name echoing back to her through the mask. “Michael, please don’t be in here.”

“Blondie!” yelled Irish, his voice muffled behind his own mask. “I’ve got a body. Grab his feet.”

Her heart stopped.

Then her brain caught up, letting her training kick in. A patient needing assessment, just like any other rescue.

A body didn’t have to be Michael. It didn’t have to be one of his brothers.

Yeah, like there’s some random guy lying in the middle of the kitchen.

But she was moving now, and that’s all that mattered. She couldn’t see for crap, but she caught hold of ankles and lifted when Irish said he was ready.

Ankles. Good. Ankles could mean anyone. They’d get this guy outside and assess his condition.

She wasn’t fooling herself.

The body hung limp and heavy between them. Hannah’s flashlight bounced and arced along the smoke as they made their way through the foyer, never quite lighting on the patient’s face.

Then they were through the broken front door, into the frigid night air, into the bright lights from the fire trucks and ambulances.

Michael.

No surprise. No shock. She’d known, from the minute she’d picked up his ankles.

She choked on another breath and was glad she still wore the mask, feeding oxygen into her face. She was lucky to recognize him, his face and clothing were so filthy and caked with soot. His head lolled back, his face slack, with dark smudges around his nostrils. Smoke inhalation, for sure—how long had he been in there?

They got him on the ground. Irish was speaking into his radio, calling for an RSI—a paramedic trained to insert a breathing tube.

Holy shit—that meant Michael wasn’t breathing at all. Hannah yanked her helmet and gloves off and flung them into the grass. She pressed her fingers against his carotid artery, searching for a pulse.

“Call for more on rescue,” she said in a rush. “Four other people live in that house.” She shifted her fingers, searching. “Come on, Michael,” she whispered, putting her face down close to his, feeling for breath. “Come on.”

Nothing.

She was distantly aware of Irish beginning chest compressions. Of firefighters rushing up the steps behind her, preparing to search the house.

When Irish called out the count, her training kicked in, and she bent to press her mouth to Michael’s. She should be using a bag and a mask, but she didn’t care. He didn’t have the two minutes it would take for her to run to the truck.

His lips were ice cold. She tasted soot on his skin.

He wasn’t moving.

“Damn it!” she yelled between breaths. “Where the hell is the RSI?”

Oscar Martinez, a guy she’d gone through fire school with, spoke from beside her. He was a full paramedic, but he couldn’t intubate. He was trying to thread an IV needle into the back of Michael’s hand. “Next house over. Some teenagers got the whole family out the back, but they’re in bad shape. We’re waiting on another ambo from station fourteen.”