Calvin fell to the floor, dragged under by a heavy sleep. His throat was dry and burning. He began to cough.

  A hand clamped around his arm, shaking him hard.

  “Calvin—wake up!” Ma cried.

  He blinked.

  He was downstairs, lying on heaps of fabric. Thick gray smoke rolled down from the ceiling, spilling along the walls as Pa screamed. Ma hauled Calvin into her arms and rushed him toward the front door. He looked back just long enough to see Pa beating at the flames with a towel at the base of the stairs.

  Outside, the street was crowded with people in nightgowns and coats. Flames licked out of the second-floor windows.

  Ma sat him down in the middle of the road, cradling him. Someone grabbed her, draped a coat over her shoulders. Another settled one around Calvin.

  “Someone call the fire department!” a voice shouted.

  “We did!” someone shouted back.

  “My babies!” his Ma cried, rocking Calvin back and forth like he was an infant.

  His Pa burst through the front door, his face smeared black with soot.

  “Someone help,” he said, grabbing at anyone near him. “Our children—they’re upstairs.” He kept saying it, over and over. People tried to calm him, telling him the firemen were on their way, but he wouldn’t stop. “They’re upstairs. They’re upstairs.”

  Then Pa staggered, stopping near the front door, clutching his chest, eyes locked on the burning house.

  Someone screamed.

  Ma cried loud and raw until someone lifted Calvin from her arms and two women held her, gripping tight, keeping her upright as she sobbed.

  A few weeks later, Calvin sifted through the blackened ash beside Ma, salvaging what little they could. She wore a long black dress, standing where the dining room had been.

  Calvin moved through piles of debris, making his way to what had once been the shop with its tables and rolls of fabric.

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  Outside, along the street, a sheriff stood talking with one of the firemen from that night.

  Their voices were low, but Calvin could hear them.

  “How’d the fire start?” the sheriff asked.

  “Candles. That’s what the fire marshal says,” the firefighter replied. He hesitated. “Strange thing is—there wasn’t a single body.”

  The sheriff frowned. “So all four bodies burned up?”

  “They couldn’t have just disappeared,” the firefighter said. He paused. “None of us have ever seen anything like that. Got the whole crew scratching their heads.”

  “You heard about the father?” the sheriff asked.

  “No.”

  “Heart attack,” the sheriff said. “He died the same night.”

  “Jesus.”

  Footsteps crunched behind them.

  “Mr. Lancaster, sir.”

  Mr. Lancaster was in his thirties, lean with his blond hair neatly combed and parted down the middle. His wife stood beside him, her long hair loose to her shoulders, a basket of food cradled in her arm.

  When she noticed Calvin, she handed the basket to the Sheriff and crossed to him, pulling him into a brief but strong hug.

  Ma appeared carrying a few pots from what had been the kitchen. Mrs. Lancaster moved to her and wrapped her in a hug. Ma broke down again. Mrs. Lancaster slipped an arm around her and guided her out of the house, past the sheriff and the firefighter.

  Calvin lingered, his eyes drifting over the debris. Something sharp and white jutted from the ash. He bent down and lifted it.

  No longer was it the eight-pointed star, but the white box the old man had given him.

  “Calvin,” Mr. Lancaster said.

  He stepped carefully through the debris and crouched in front of him until they were eye to eye. “You’re a brave boy,” he said gently. “Strong too, which is important, especially for your mother.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lancaster.”

  “Pastor Williams tells me you’re bright,” he went on. “Says you’re a fine orator, too.”

  “Orator?” Calvin asked.

  “Speaker,” Mr. Lancaster said, smiling. “My son’s a few years younger than you. He goes to Milton Prep. How would you feel about attending there? It’s a good school. Strong academics. You could do well—maybe even go to college someday.”

  Calvin nodded. “Ma says I’m a thinker.”

  “Then you’ll do well there.” Mr. Lancaster said, resting a hand briefly on Calvin’s shoulder. “I want you to know something.”

  He paused, choosing his words then noticed the box.

  “What’s that?”

  He reached for it, but Calvin pulled it back. “It’s not a toy.”

  “Of course not,” Mr. Lancaster said with a small smile. His eyes flicked to the box, then back to Calvin. “Your parents gave a great deal to the community. So did your brother Alfie, learning your father’s trade. You and your mother are not alone, Calvin. Whatever you need, we will help you. Both of you.”

  Calvin looked up at Mr. Lancaster. “You get what you give.”

  “That’s right,” he said, smiling. He placed a hand on Calvin’s shoulder and led him out through the blackened ash.

  Calvin looked at the white box and smiled.