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own private units. Heads bobbed.
    No one looked confused, but he knew the disorientation they would face in a real emergency when smoke and panic concealed and distorted everything familiar. “Have an escape plan …” Could their aging limbs pull them along at ground level, where the air was cleaner? Could they move swiftly enough to escape the accumulating carbon monoxide, before even lungfuls of fresh air weren’t enough to staunch the poison already in their systems? What of misplaced eyeglasses needed to locate the glow of exit signs, arthritic knees, and—
    Ed snorted and shifted his position before resuming his snooze.
    Cal moved his hands like a symphony conductor until Ed’s snores settled into their regular pattern. His neighbors laughed, giving Cal good-natured smiles. Cal’s chest tightened. Maybe a few of the sparky ones would see to their neighbors and friends. The rest was up to the men at the station and those called from their homes, even from their beds, to put their skills to the test. Cal tightened his grip on the pointer. Skills fail. Men fail. He closed the charts. “So remember now, think safety. We can’t afford to lose the wisdom in this room.”
    Maud dabbed her eyes again, then honked her nose into a handkerchief. She was always touched that he cared enough to come. He never told her it was his job. And maybe it was more than that that brought him so regularly. He loved old people with their amused acceptance of their limitations, even the crotchety ones who complained about every ache. The more marginalized, the more he cared. Someone had to.
    When he finished the presentation, Cal took the elevator up. It wasn’t part of the job, but he always took a stroll on the confused floor. Sure enough, Martha was in the hall, stunning in an anklelength beaded gown, her posture at eighty-four was elegant, her figure svelte. Her arms, covered to the elbow in gloves, swung just so with each step.
    “I’m Martha, the Victorian.” She engaged him with her eyes. “They said my baby died, but I know they stole it.” Fallout from the days they didn’t let women see their stillborn children. Sometimes Martha was clear as a bell, but when she was in her promenade mode, she didn’t converse, she recited. She raised her chin again and walked on. “I’m Martha, the Victorian.” Cal let her stroll and went into the third room on the right.
    Here the woman was tied into a wheelchair to keep her from slipping out. She looked up. “Hello.”
    “Hi there, Olive.”
    She smiled, showing straight teeth. “Did I ever tell you my father was on the stage?”
    “Is that so?”
    “He was a comedian … and a tragedian.”
    They shared the laugh they always did.
    “He had lovely white hair. Oliver DeForest. That was his stage name. He was a comedian … and a tragedian.”
    Cal squatted down and took her hand. “You doing all right, Olive? Anything you need?”
    “My mother was a janitor.”
    “Nothing wrong with good honest work.” Cal patted her hand and stood.
    “Gladdy cut my eyelashes off. She was my half sister.”
    “Well, you have lovely eyelashes now, Olive.” He framed her with his fingers. “Pretty as a picture.”
    She laughed. “Go on, you flirt.”
    Cal squeezed her hand. “You have a nice day, Olive.”
    “A comedian and a tragedian. Such lovely white hair.”
    Cal left her reminiscing and ducked into the other rooms briefly. He was on the clock, so he couldn’t do much more than say hello. But that was enough. He walked out with a spring in his step.
    After leaving the home, Cal headed for the library. Merv Peterson had earned himself an early inspection by twice calling in a smell of smoke between true crime and mystery . Both times the men had pulled the engine around to assess from three sides without seeing so much as a puff. Both times the interior proved sound. Merv took his position seriously and made sure everyone knew his importance to the library. But before Merv made