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Finally, the two firemen who had gone into the building came out, one carrying Reed draped over his shoulders and the other carrying Ben.

Oh God.

Four EMTs hurried over with two gurneys as the boys were lowered to the ground, where they didn’t move.

No, no, no.

I tried to stand again, but another EMT appeared at my side. She held my wrist and timed my pulse with her watch while I stared at Ben and Reed being wheeled into an ambulance. Reed’s hand hung loosely to his side.

No, God no. Not him. Please, not him.

“You’re lucky.” The EMT took off her stethoscope and shined a bright light into my eyes. “A few more minutes and we’d have had to take you in too. I’d like to clean that cut before we let you go though.”

“But— Re— What’s going to happen to him?” I pointed toward the ambulance.

“They’re taking both boys to the hospital. Probably had some bad smoke inhalation.” She took out a kit and began blotting something that stung onto my cheek. “Don’t you worry. I’m sure they’ll be okay.”

A loud BOOM came from the theater and shook the ground. Like something out of a movie, the roof of the Lyric collapsed. Flames shot skyward like rockets. A crowd had gathered nearby, all of them pointing and yelling and filming the destruction of one of the oldest buildings in town.

One of the best connections I had left to my grandmother.

Gone.

The ambulance’s sirens started up before it sped away toward Clairview, and my head fell into my hands.

Inside that bus lay the boy who had done nothing all summer except try to save his family’s legacy. The same boy who just risked his life to save mine. I’d never forgive myself if he wasn’t okay.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Reed

“I’d wake up at night with the smell of the ballpark in my nose, the cool of the grass on my feet…the thrill of the grass.”

—Shoeless Joe Jackson, Field of Dreams

My father, dressed in uniform, walked with me toward the empty, familiar diamond of the sandlot. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and a cool, damp breeze drifted over the infield.

A single baseball lay on the mound surrounded by dead grass and dry dirt.

Dad picked up the ball and smiled at it. “You know what I loved the best about pitching, son?”

“What?” I asked.

He pressed the ball into my hand. “The control and power it gave me. It was the one place in the world I felt like I had any control over my life, over what happened to me.”

I rolled the ball back and forth.

“But that didn’t stop me from taking risks.” Dad faced me and put both of his big hands on my shoulders. “Don’t be afraid of the things you can’t control. Baseball brings it all in balance, but to do so, it has to have something else to balance with. Don’t let it be the only thing you love and fight for.”

“Reed,” a voice from far away floated through my head, and the ballpark and my father disappeared. A soft hand brushed my cheek.

“Reed,” it said again. Closer now. Clearer. “Come on, honey. Wake up now.”

I tried to speak, but clawlike fingers raked themselves down my throat. Something heavy sat on my chest, and a sharp, searing pain burned on my upper-left arm.

I opened my eyes and quickly closed them.

Too bright.