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seriously the matter with him. I ran down the alleyway beside the shop and around to the back door. It too was locked.
    There was a wrought iron chair and table out on a tiny patio where we occasionally take a coffee or lunch break. I picked up the chair and heaved it at the back door. The glass in the little panel in the door shattered, and I was able to reach through the small opening and unlock the door. Instantly the alarm went off, but I didn’t stop. I figured that would bring help faster than a phone call. I raced up the four steps to the main floor.
    It was, as I had feared, Alex. He was wobbling a little, almost staggering, and muttering to himself. A stroke, I thought. He’s had a stroke or something. But then I noticed there was blood in his hair, and a bruise was forming on the side of his head above one ear. He’s fallen, I concluded, and hit his head.
    I went over to him, being careful not to startle him. “What happened, Alex?” I said, taking his arm as gently as I could. He looked toward me, but his eyes were not focusing properly. “Let’s go,” I said gently. “I’m going to take you to the doctor, okay?”
    “Can’t,” he said finally, the first intelligible words I’d heard him say. “Not finished. Something I have to do.” He mumbled incoherently for a moment, then said, “I have an account to settle with…” He looked confused. “With someone,” he said vaguely.
    “I’m sure it can wait until later,” I said soothingly. “Now you just come along with me.” It was hopeless though. He wasn’t going to leave. I knew I would have to get help. I gently eased him into a chair and headed for the desk.
    Throughout our conversation, if you can call it that, the alarm was making a terrible racket, which struck me as a bit odd. I didn’t think Alex would have set the security system until he was ready to leave the shop. The reason for the alarm would soon become clear.
    As I reached for the phone, there was a roar, then a crash, and I was thrown backward as the storage room door just a few feet away from me was blasted off its hinges. Dense, black smoke filled the air. The sprinkler system activated. There was smoke, there was water, Diesel was circling my legs, howling in terror, the alarm rang on and on. Fire, I thought, it’s the fire alarm.
    But it was even worse than that. Crumpled just inside the storage room was a man. He lay on his side, his back to me, knees drawn up a little, not quite in a fetal position, and his hands had been tied behind his back. I couldn’t see his face, and I couldn’t bring myself to look. He did not move at all. I thought I could see blood, though, on the side of his neck and his hands. For a second, I had this vision of a man on his knees, begging his executioner to spare him, then falling over into the position in which he now lay.
    I had a decision to make, and I made it. I couldn’t get all of us out. I left the man in the storage room, who was, I reasoned, almost certainly dead, and grabbing Alex, who was now unconscious, heaved him up into my arms like a child. Yelling at Diesel to come with me, I tried to make my way to the back door. I couldn’t see where I was going, and I started to choke and gag. I hit my shins on some furniture, ran into the side of something, and, still holding Alex, fell to my knees. Down low, the air wasn’t quite so thick, and I could see a tiny shadow just ahead of me. It was Diesel. I pulled Alex up on my back, his arms draped over my shoulders, and, following the cat, crawled to the back steps, then to safety, the sound of a distant siren moving toward us.
    “Help’s coming, help’s coming,” I said over and over to Alex’s unconscious figure until the police and firemen arrived.
    3
    What would follow were some of the blackest days of my life.
    I spent the night in the hospital, under observation, it was explained to me, because of all the smoke I’d inhaled. Being under observation extended beyond the