“Come with your son to the red limousine by Lincoln Middle School. 5 a.m. Do not ignore this. — J.W.”
It sounded like a prank—until the dread in my stomach said it wasn’t.
The fire had started at a backyard block party the afternoon before. Burgers on the grill, cider steaming in mugs, kids sticky with popsicles. Then the shed behind the Martinez house went from harmless smoke to a wall of orange, and somewhere inside it, a baby shrieked. I heard it, froze, and in the time it took my brain to catch up, Ethan had already tossed his phone in the grass and sprinted straight into the smoke.