The first thing everyone saw wasn’t the flames. It was the man lying flat across the front door of a burning house, arms spread wide, refusing to move while smoke rolled over him — and the strangest part was that he looked like he was protecting the fire instead of escaping it.

It was him.

A man stretched across the front door like a fallen statue, arms spread wide, body pressed flat against splintering wood as fire clawed its way through the house behind him.

At first, I thought he was dead.

We all did.

Until he moved.

Barely.

Just enough to lift his head through the smoke.