Keep the heat out.
Protect the room.
“Livy!”
The room is dark, the air gray and low, but it’s not burning.
Not yet.
I drop to my knees and sweep my hand across the floor.
Toys.
A rug.
A shoe.
“Livy, sweetheart, make noise if you can hear me.”
Nothing.
My chest tightens.
Kids hide.
Kids panic.
Kids do exactly what their bodies tell them to do when the world turns into smoke and sirens.
I move toward the bed first.
One hand on the mattress.
The other sweeping underneath.
Empty.
“Livy!”
No answer.
Closet.
I find the door by touch and yank it open.
Clothes brush my helmet, but no Livy.
Damnit.
I turn toward the window. Still closed. Good.
Then I see something near the far side of the bed.
Small.
Curled tight.
Too still.
