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pray.
    Behind me I was vaguely aware of boots hitting the ground, doors slamming, men yelling, police pushing back onlookers. I stayed on the hard concrete, cradling Dante’s head, my eyes fixed on blazing agony.
    â€œMa’am, are you all right?” (The first person to ask.)
    â€œMy friends are trapped!” I pointed, my focus still on those flames. I was shaking pretty badly now and I couldn’t keep the hysteria out of my voice—
    â€œMy friends! They’re in there! I don’t know what to do!”
    A steady hand squeezed my shoulder. “Slow down, ma’am. Who’s trapped? Talk to me.”
    I glanced up. Under a bulky fire helmet, intelligent eyes were leveled on mine. Wisps of wiry blond hair peeked out from under that Darth Vader headgear. The man’s pale skin was smooth. He was on the young side, late twenties maybe, but his voice and expression were cool and composed, his translucent blue eyes like clear beacons in the middle of this searing, dark fog.
    â€œMy friend . . . an elderly lady,” I said, feeling steadier in the presence of this man’s calm. “She’s in the basement with the owner of the shop. They’re both trapped. There are no windows down there, and the sidewalk chute was bricked up long ago. The only way into or out of that basement is on fire . Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    â€œYes. Anyone else in the upper floors?”
    I blanked for a second. “No. There shouldn’t be. Enzo—the building’s owner—lives alone on the third floor, but he’s in the basement now. He mentioned the second floor was being rented, but the business went under a month ago and the space is still vacant.”
    The fireman nodded, spoke evenly into a radio attached to his coat. “We have two civilians in the basement. The only means of egress is blocked. Fire is doubtful at this time. Repeat. Fire is doubtful at this time—”
    â€œDoubtful!” I cried. “You doubt you can save my friends?”
    â€œEasy, ma’am. We’ll get ’em out. Try to calm down.”
    While we spoke, three firemen reached the building, a length of hose unfurling behind them. Another man raised an odd-looking tool—like the long, skinny offspring of a crowbar and a claw hammer. Wielding the thing as confidently as a Yankee all-star, he tore the caffè’s front door off its hinges and swept away the jagged remnants of the plate glass window, deftly avoiding the spilling of razor-sharp shards onto the sidewalk’s already twinkling concrete.
    â€œMa’am?”
    My fireman again—the one with the reassuring voice. I turned to find he’d waved over a pair of FDNY paramedics.
    Two women in dark blue uniforms lifted Dante out of my arms and onto a stretcher. I rose and followed them to the back of their ambulance, watched them take vital signs, cover his mouth with an oxygen mask.
    â€œWill he be okay?”
    â€œHe’s coming around,” one replied. “His vitals are strong, but he’ll need a CAT scan . . .”
    A paramedic tried to take my pulse, but I waved him off. Knowing Dante was in good hands, I returned to the sidewalk to see if there was anything else I could do for Madame and Enzo.
    What else can I tell these people to help them?
    Another stocky, older fireman approached me. Like the rest, he wore thick, fire-resistant pants under a long, charcoal-colored duster with horizontal stripes of neon yellow, “a turnout coat,” that’s what the firefighters in Mike’s family had called it. Bunker gear was the more common term because they once literally stored it beside their bunks.
    â€œWe have a three-story attached commercial building,” the stocky man recited into a radio, “the fire began on the first floor and is going vertical—”
    â€œYeah and fast,” my fireman added. He must have seen the shock and alarm on my face because