My fingers shake as I try to dial three digits on my phone. The boys are silent, big eyes filled with terror and absolute trust in me. I search for words of comfort, but the smoke steals my breath away.
It’s getting oven-hot, and the roof gives a deafening crack. I hold my boys close, and all words of comfort are now a half-forgotten prayer.
‘Over here!’ a voice comes from behind the wall of smoke. ‘Can you move?’
I barely see a firefighter squeezing through the cracked door, like a phantom in the puffs of grey fumes. ‘I’ll take the kids,’ he offers. ‘Hold on. And follow me.’
My boys are asleep. We carry them through the wreckage of our home, past the burning rooms and over the fallen beams. I wonder how smoke no longer stings my lungs, how well I can see. The firefighter’s suit is filthy and burnt, torn at the sleeves.
He looks back at me with his eyes shining. So bright it makes me smile in return.