“Mommy, I’m scared.”
“I know,” I said, even as my own voice shook. “But listen to me. We are getting out.”
The alarm wailed. Smoke scorched my throat. Somewhere upstairs, something crashed.
I lifted Emma onto the counter beneath the narrow kitchen window, the only one without bars. It was too small for me.
But maybe not for her.
I shattered the glass, cleared the sharp edges with a towel, and looked into my daughter’s frightened eyes.
“Emma,” I said, “you’re going first.”
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