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Not going to die, not going to die.

The computer on Dad’s desk? That was heavy. No, too heavy, Jet couldn’t pick it up with one hand. Something else, something else.

A large gold pot in the corner with a sad-looking palm plant inside, too green among all this smoke.

Jet picked it up and ran, ramming it into the window, the plant still inside.

The pot shattered but the window did not, dirt and leaves scattering over her feet.

‘Fuck!’ she roared.

The door behind her was on fire now, the wall too, the flames finding her, closing in.

Trapped inside her dad’s office.

Not going to die here; she was not going to die.

Something else.

On the desk, beside the computer, was a large photo frame. It looked heavy, the frame made of marble or something close to it.

A photo of the Masons. Jet just a squinting red-faced kid, probably thinking about frogs. Mom, Dad, Emily, Luke. That final summer, before five Masons became four.

Jet grabbed it because she was not going to die.

She stumbled through the smoke, back to the window, raised her good arm, and struck.

The corner of the stone frame smacked into the window. Glass broke, not from the window, from the photo, one shard still covering Luke, the rest breaking away, glitters of glass catching in the folds of Jet’s jacket.

She struck again, harder, and the window cracked, a spiderweb in a split second, spreading, anchoring itself.

Jet pulled back, aimed for the middle of the web.

She drove the corner through and the window shattered, giving way to the outside world.

Air.

It rushed inside and Jet sucked at it, the cold breeze finding her red-raw face.

The smoke pushed her out of the way, rolling out to claim the sky.

The carpet on fire behind her.

No time, no time to breathe.

Jet smashed the rest of the glass, punching it out with the frame, clearing the bottom ledge.

Then she dropped the photo, wrapped her left hand around the sill.

Pulled herself up onto the ledge, one leg, then two, sitting on the edge.

No time for second thoughts, not even first thoughts.

Jet rolled forward and let go.

She fell, long enough to think, I’m falling.

Hit the roof of the lean-to feetfirst, then her back, winded, all the air forced out of her, the smoke too.

She was still moving, rolling.

Going to roll right off the edge, she couldn’t stop herself, not with one arm and –

Two hands caught her, appearing out of the dark night, strong against the shoulder she could feel, and the one she couldn’t.

Billy pulled her to her feet, standing on the roof of the lean-to, his face dirty from ash, a cut on his neck, trickle of blood, even brighter against the grime.

‘You came back,’ Jet said, voice ragged.

‘You got out,’ Billy said, wiping his eyes. ‘Don’t make me do that again, OK?’ The words shook in his throat. ‘Don’t make me leave you. I was going up inside that window if you didn’t come out of it. That’s not fair, Jet. Not fair.’

A thunderous creak behind them as something collapsed inside the building, whining, crying, feeding the fire.

‘Got to get out of here.’ Billy took her good hand, led her along the lean-to. ‘There’s a dumpster over here with pallets inside, that’s how I climbed up.’

Billy went first, jumping down. Then he turned back, standing on the edge of the yellow dumpster.

‘Sit on the edge and drop down. I can catch you.’

He did catch her, but he lost his footing, stepping back on the shifting pallets, falling over. Jet landed on Billy, head on his chest, rolled off, a corner of a wooden pallet sticking into her lower back.

She didn’t move. Billy didn’t either.

They lay there for a stolen moment, staring up at the burning building.

At the window Jet had just come out of, angry flames licked at the frame, escaping outside and up the bricks.

‘We almost died,’ Billy said quietly.

‘We’re alive,’ Jet said instead.

‘I smelled gas.’

‘Me too.’ Jet coughed. ‘Someone set fire to it.’

‘While we were inside,’ Billy added.

Jet looked over at him. ‘ Because we were inside?’

A new sound joined the roar of the flames, fighting it, not winning yet, too far away. A high-pitched whine, keening up and down.

‘Sirens.’ Jet sat up. ‘We need to go before they get here.’

She groaned, picking herself up from the pallets one-handed, jumping down to the grass, Billy behind her.

Through the parking lot, around the vans, a loud crash behind them as half a wall caved in, scattering bricks, dragging a section of the upper floor down with it. Sparks as it landed, a snowfall of dark ash.

Billy pressed his lips together.

‘We weren’t supposed to break anything.’

‘ We didn’t,’ Jet told him.

They walked back through the main gate, the sensor opening it for them, sirens getting louder, closer, a werewolf howl at a not-full moon.

‘Should we uncover the security cameras?’ Billy asked, pointing to the taped-up camera, the one they’d danced in front of only an hour ago.

‘Hmm, I think they’ll probably be able to tell someone’s been here,’ Jet said, another crash behind, another wall collapsing.

They followed the drive around, Jet’s blue truck there, waiting for them.

Jet hesitated, looked back.

Mason Construction was gone – everything her dad had built. Didn’t look like a building anymore, folding in around the inferno. Its death throes were loud, almost human, the hiss of things burning not far from a scream. The moon above blocked out by a roiling column of black smoke.

Something else hovered in the sky too, near the smoke: a little red light winking, a dark mechanical shadow against the darker sky.

‘Is that … is that a drone over there?’ Jet squinted.

‘Come on.’ Billy opened the truck door. ‘They’re almost here. We have to go.’

Jet could see them now too, red and blue flashes in the trees, right the way down the dark road, speeding toward them.

She opened the passenger door, dropped inside as Billy started the engine.

‘Go, go, go!’

Jet dipped her head under the stream of water. Reached out, turned the shower colder, colder still. Her skin felt too hot, like the fire had infected her, made itself at home, reminding her how close she’d come, a bit of hell that stayed behind.

The water soaked through her bandages, but she didn’t care. Needed that smell of smoke out of her hair.

A burn on her left index finger that she could feel.

A burn on her right arm that she couldn’t. A big one, above the elbow, bits of melted fabric from her jacket stuck in the wound, fused with it.

A cut on her knee, a nebula of bruised skin already forming around it.

A gash on her left palm, from the broken window.

But the worst of it was this feeling in her chest. Too tight, squeezing her heart out of place, into the base of her throat.

And those words she still couldn’t let go of, even though the danger had passed.

Her lip quivered and her eyes stung.

She pressed them shut and wished it away, this feeling. It couldn’t help her.

Turned the shower even colder, her skin ridging with goosebumps.

Her chest tightened the more she pretended to ignore it, couldn’t swallow past her stupid heart.

Jet turned the shower off, had been in here long enough, and the water couldn’t wash that feeling away.

Pushed the door open with her good elbow.

Grabbed the towel with her good hand.

How could you … how could you wrap a towel around you with only one hand?

Fuck.

That almost did it, broke her in half, but Jet held herself together, even though she only had one hand to do it.

She stood there, naked, dripping, a puddle on the tiles.

Pinched her dead arm, because how dare it leave her to die like that?

Tried something else.

Stuffed one corner of the towel in the gap in the radiator, enough to hold it firm.

Bent down and tried to wrap herself into it, holding the other side.

The towel came free, dropped to the floor.

A frustrated growl that made Jet’s eyes sting harder, made them swim.

She blinked them back, tried again.

Stuffed the corner in farther, so it wouldn’t tug free. Held the other side in her left hand, wrapped herself inside it, knees bent, spinning, awkward. She just about made it, catching the other corner half a second before it made a break for it.

Both corners in one hand.

She tightened her fist, holding the towel together under her right armpit, covering herself.

She turned.

Stopped.

Stared at the closed bathroom door, no hands to open it.

That almost did it too, pressing her lips together to stop them from shaking, her chin buckling, ready to go, to take her down with it.

No. Jet refused. She raised her foot, pressed her toes against the metal handle, pushed down.

The door opened and she stumbled out.

Billy was sitting on the couch, Jet’s notebook open in his lap.

‘Oh good, you’re out.’ He glanced up, then back down at the page. ‘So, I’ve been thinking. If we think the person who started the fire did it because they were trying to kill you, and it’s likely the same person who attacked you on Halloween, then that means we –’

Something about Billy’s face did it, took Jet all the way down, no hope of coming back up, of stopping it.

She started to cry.

The tears hot and fast, chest seizing around them.

Billy’s eyes stretched too wide, hurting to see her hurt. He put the notebook down, stood up.

‘What’s wrong?’ he said, voice soft. Not prying, just asking. Poor, sweet Billy.

Jet sniffed, tears pooling at the crack in her lips as they parted.

‘I … I can’t hold my towel up with one hand,’ she cried.

Billy stepped closer.

‘Is that really why?’ he asked, even softer.

‘No.’ Jet shook her head, snatching her breath between, building up to it. Those words. ‘Billy,’ she said, little more than a wet whisper. ‘I don’t want to die.’

That did it, broke her all the way.

Not just tears anymore, a howl in the back of her throat, breaking into sad little couplets as she tried to breathe through it. She couldn’t. The air couldn’t get past her heart.

‘I don’t want to die.’

Billy closed the distance between them in two strides, wrapping his arms around a wet and shivering Jet.

He took the towel ends out of Jet’s hand, and she let him.

He crossed his arms around her back and held the towel up for her.

‘I’m scared,’ Jet cried, her arm free, hand pressing up against Billy’s chest, her forehead joining it, the tip of her nose. ‘I don’t want to die.’

She cried.

Her wet hair dripped and her nose streamed, and the tears doubled up, chasing each other but there were no winners, all soaking into Billy. Her sobs shook both of them, but Billy stood firm, his hands strong and warm against her damp, exposed back.

Jet cried, balling her fist, a handful of his shirt.

Billy bent down, resting his chin against the top of her broken head.

Then his nose.

Then his lips, pressing one kiss into her hair, staying there, his hot breath down her cold neck.

Jet cried.

And Billy stood there and took them all, holding up her towel.