The elevator door closes and my senses return.

“Holy shit,” I say. “Oh my God—Rowan?”

“She’s fine. She’s the one who called me.”

“What about Mom and Dad? Tony? Aunt Mary?”

Trey shakes his head, dazed. “I don’t know anything else for sure. Rowan was pretty hysterical. She and Tony and Mom were the only ones in the restaurant, and when she called me she was standing outside with Tony. She said she thought Mom got out but now she can’t find her. . . .”

“Oh my God, Mom!” I scream.

The elevator door opens to a few curious stares. Sawyer pulls us out of the hospital and points in the direction of the car. We start running, blindly snaking around buildings and down car-lined streets. I pull my phone out of my pocket and see I have three messages. One from Rowan, two from Trey.

“Shit,” I say, nearly tripping on a crack in the sidewalk. I dial Rowan, and she answers.

“Rowan! What’s happening?”

“Did you find Trey?” She’s sobbing.

“Yes, he’s with me now. Is Mom okay?”

“I don’t know!” Rowan screams. “Just get here!”

“Oh my God,” I say as I climb into Sawyer’s car. “What about Dad?”

“I don’t know! I haven’t seen him, and the firefighters won’t let me get any closer. Tony’s running around to the front and he told me to stay here and watch for them.” Her voice hitches in a sob. “Just hurry up!”

“We’re driving. Sawyer’s going as fast as he can. We’ll be there in less than an hour.”

“Forty minutes,” Sawyer says.

“Forty minutes,” I tell Rowan. “Just, whatever you do, stay safe! And call me when you find Mom and Dad.”

“I will.”

I hang up. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

From the backseat Trey says, “She told me it was just her and Tony in the kitchen and Mom was out in the dining area. There were only a couple of customers . . .” He trails off. “Tony must have spilled some oil or something.”

“Or it could’ve been a pan on the stove. . . .” Only three of them working. So Dad must have been upstairs. Neither of us says it.

Sawyer grips the wheel and stays silent, concentrating on the road. If we talk, I don’t remember any of it. All I need to focus on is that Rowan is okay.

• • •

When we get close to home, we can see the lights of police and fire vehicles. The whole block is cordoned off and the sky is filled with smoke, lit up by spectacular, horrible flames. Sawyer parks as close as he can, and Trey and I jump out of the car, pound the pavement, and dodge onlookers, searching for Rowan in the back parking lot.

And she’s there, a stranger’s blanket draped around her. Trey and I run to her and fold her in our arms and hold her. Her phone shakes in her hand and her face is streaked with tears. “They’re okay,” she says. “They’re on the other side. Dad was on a delivery . . . I didn’t know . . .”

“Mom and Dad?” I ask, making sure before the hope can rise too far. “Both of them are okay?”

“Yeah. Tony just called me—Mom twisted her ankle helping customers get out. She crawled out and has been stuck on the other side all this time trying to find me and calling me from other people’s cell phones because she left hers in the restaurant. But I wasn’t answering because I was trying to call her and you guys and Tony and Dad. Dad was doing the last delivery, which I didn’t even know about, and he’s back now, and they’re both fine.” She releases a shuddering sigh. “Tony and Dad are helping Mom walk around the block to meet us here.”

“Thank God,” Trey says. He hugs us both again. And then we hear warning shouts from firefighters who have been spraying down the buildings on either side of ours—a florist on one side and a bike shop on the other, with apartments above, just like ours. Their buildings are so close to ours that there’s no possible way the entire block hasn’t gone up in flames, yet there they are, bricks scorched but no sign of interior flames so far. We turn back and stare at our restaurant . . . and our home.

The firefighters’ shouts grow louder. They begin to push back from the building, and with a roar and a rush of gasps, the roof falls in on everything we own, everything my parents have worked their entire lives for, everything my father has collected and hoarded for the past ten years. The sparks fly like shooting stars into the night sky.

• • •

We stay all night.

Not because we have nowhere else to go. We stay because our parents won’t leave, and we won’t leave them.

My father’s face is like an old worn painting, gray and cracking. He looks eighty years old today as he watches, mourning his business and his precious hoards of recipes and treasures. My mother fusses over us for a while, telling us not to worry. Telling us that we’ll get more clothes, of all things—right there in the middle of the parking lot, with her whole life crashing down in front of her, Mom is worried about us being upset that we have nothing to change into. How does one become this person? I don’t know.

I don’t think my father even notices that Sawyer is there, bringing blankets and food and water and collapsible sports chairs from neighbors and I don’t know where else so we can sit down on something other than the cold cement curb of the parking lot. My mother notices, though. When he shows her the chair, she puts her hand on his arm, thanks him with her wet eyes, and sits. He nods and presses his lips together, and I realize how much it means to him to have her approval.