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muffled, guttural sound, a sound obviously made by Lizzie, but somehow different from her usual noises. Robin cocked his head and listened for a moment. Hearing it again, he walked quickly back to the bedroom to check on his sister. There was Lizzie where he’d left her playing with his plastic soldiers, but something was wrong. Her tiny fists were flailing about; spittle ran from her mouth. Her eyes were wide, panicked—she was choking!
    “Mama, Mama!” Robin cried immediately. “Mama, come quick! It’s Lizzie!” Rushing to the baby’s side, he was terrified, frantic, helpless. In seconds, his mother was there. The baby’s desperate flailing slowed, her skin began to turn a sickening shade of blue, her little arms and legs fell limply to the floor. Robin could only gape in horror.
    His mother immediately pried the tiny mouth open and saw the trouble. Reaching in with her thumb and forefinger, she dislodged the toy soldier and tossed it aside. Then, placing her mouth over Lizzie’s, she carefully breathed once, twice, three times. The baby stirred; thankfully, she cried. Color began to return to her face as her mother cradled her, sobbing with relief.
    Robin fell to his knees. “Mama, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he cried over the baby’s wailing. “It’s my fault! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”
    “Hush, Robbie, it’s all right. Lizzie’s okay. It’s all right. You didn’t do anything.” Her words were nearly drowned out by the baby’s terrified screams.
    “I was supposed to be watching her! I almost killed her!”
    “Everything’s okay, Robbie, calm down. You didn’t kill her, she’s fine, she’s fine. Hush now, sweetheart.” The three of them huddled for what seemed like a long time and calmed down together, sobbing and hugging each other until the fear had passed. Baby Lizzie was indeed all right, and, sniffling just a bit now, finally found her thumb.
    It was Mama who first noticed the smell, the acrid, stifling smell. She turned her head, sniffing, unsure and unbelieving at first. As the terrible truth dawned on her she jumped up, almost knocking Robin over. With Lizzie still in her arms, she bolted for the kitchen, where she knew the fire would have started.
    She ran to the stove and struck at the flaming skillet to knock it off the gas burner, only to splash burning grease on herself and the baby, who screamed in pain. She grabbed for a dish towel to smother the flames, but it was already too late. The wooden cabinets over the stove had caught immediately, as had the curtains, the ceiling, and the paneled walls. The old house was dry and rotten, and the fire spread with terrifying swiftness. The entire rear section was almost completely engulfed.
    Robin’s mother, already burdened with poverty, loneliness, and desperation, did something she had never done before. She froze. Her body paralyzed, she could only watch in terror as the hungry wall of flame approached her and Lizzie.
    The fire, now completely out of control, reached the fuse box. In a moment, the front of the house went dark, then was illuminated through the smoke only by the awful yellow-orange glow from the kitchen. In the bedroom, Robin screamed, “Mama! Mama! Lizzie! Where are you?” but his voice was lost in the thunderous roar of the fire. Stumbling, he made his way down the hall toward the kitchen, but could not reach the doorway for the intense heat now pouring from it. He stumbled and fell. Again he screamed for Mama; this time, his voice reached her and broke the spell.
    “Robbie!” she cried, trying to move. “Get away!” Her legs finally responded, and spinning around, she tried to escape. The old dinette set in the kitchen had already given way to the heat, though, and lay in her path, all melted Formica and red-hot pot metal. When she tripped, the baby was violently wrenched from her grasp and plunged, wailing piteously, into the fiery darkness.
    Robin, now crawling on his stomach, forced himself into the