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legs, and trailed reluctantly after the boy down the stairs.
    Mick shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Where is the blasted whistle?”
    One of the boys spoke up. “Remember? You gave it to the leddie in the next door building when she said she feared her old man friend.”
    “Damn. The stick’ll have to do. The rest of you, on the stairs, the way you practiced. Be ready to pass the buckets or bang doors and run when I give the word.” He looked around the little group and groaned.
    “Aw, saints, Jenny, where’s Tuck?”
    The stout woman in the hall began to wail “Tuck-uck-ucker.”
    Jenny pressed close to Mick and a baby started to wail.
    “Ho, now, watch Quint, Jen.”
    He took the infant from the wailing woman and absently passed it over to Timona who held the screaming, squirming baby under its arms, and away from herself. Her dearest friend Araminta was probably good with babies, but Timona wasn’t sure what to do with the squirming handful.
    Mr. McCann, striding back into the room, stopped to flip the baby onto its belly, so it lay face down on Timona’s arm. “Like this, see. Poor mite likely has gas. This eases it.”
    How on earth did he know about babies? For a moment she wondered if he had a wife and children back in Ireland. No. He would surely have some memento of that other life if he did.
    Mr. McCann pulled a rumpled handkerchief out of a pocket of the frock coat, dipped the cloth in water, and then tied it across his face. He grabbed his dripping wet blue coat, and the large pot full of water stained with something dark. With a chill, she realized it was probably her own blood he’d washed from his coat.
    He started up the stairs, his strong legs taking the steps three at a time. As he ran he called down, “Jenny, love, stop the wailing. Save your breath. We might need you to wake anyone who miraculously slept through this.”
    The noise ended at once.
    It had been perhaps thirty seconds since the banging and mayhem had started. Mr. McCann had his troops ready and pressed into action. Timona trailed after him, awkwardly clutching the baby, and wondering how she should help. The child stationed in the hall gaped at her instead of watching Mr. McCann tear up the stairs.
    A door opened. A fat, unshaven man in an undershirt glared at the children on the stairs. “Fire? Again?”
    The girl nodded.
    The man bellowed up the stairs. “Mick? You taking care of it?”
    Mick’s voice floated down. “Aye, Jim. I’m thinking it’s not so bad. We’ll knock you up if need be.”
    The man yawned, then retreated into his flat and slammed the door.
    “Why’re you dressed like that, ma’am?” the girl asked, but Timona was up the stairs following after Mr. McCann. The fire must be at the top of the building, for the air grew hazy with smoke as she slowly climbed the stairs. The charred, sharp stench stung her eyes and nose.
    “I shan’t go any higher,” she reassured the baby, who seemed to be falling asleep on her arm. “I just wish to know where he is.”
    She soon reached the next flight, where Jenny stood next to Rob at the pump. “I wondered where little Quinton’d got to,” said the plump, dark-haired woman, still sniffing after her bout of tears. She wiped her face with the back of a hand and held out her arms. “I can take him back. I’m fine now.”
    Timona clumsily thrust the baby towards her.
    “You’re a girl, ain’t you?” said Jenny, as she settled the baby in the crook of her arm. She had a strong southern American accent. “So why are you dressed like that?”
    Timona wondered why these people cared more about her clothes than the fire.
    A thicker puff of acrid smoke drifted down the stairway.
    “It’s a long story,” she said politely. “Where is Mr. McCann?”
    “Our place is the top of the building. One more flight up.” The older boy pointed. “That’s where the fire is. Don’t worry. It’s not a bad one, I think. Maybe even I coulda put it out