Looking down the ravine, Carol could see that John and Lia were in trouble. They hung from a branch only a few yards above the flames and seemed to climb back up the slope.

Below them the fire was burning a sooty orange, the spread-eagle form of a man lying amid the flames.

One of her children had died. She felt like letting go of the bush and dropping to her fate, joining the boy on the pyre. But that was a vainglorious thought. She knew she had to help the other children or she would not have done her best in the crisis. Maybe this was how a true mother felt when her children were in danger.

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The thoughts were a soft voice in the back of Carol’s head as she let herself slide slowly down the slope. She saw another bush a yard above the children. It was the best place to aid their ascent.

Digging her heels into the dirt, she guided her path to the bush, the rough dirt bruising her backside.

The sky roared again, a bright light flashing and illuminating the ravine like day. She could see everything so clearly, each bush clinging to the side of the ravine, each variation in the dirt’s color, and the bodies smoldering beside the wreckage below.

The fist of air hit Carol while she slid, while she had no means of holding onto the slope. She could feel herself pressed into the dirt, then pulled away from the ground.

Someone screamed.