The preschool room smelled like chemicals. The flames, now touching the ABC carpet, began to lap at the wall. Soon after, hot yellow danced up the precariously thumbtacked crayon-drawn self-portraits.

Dylan watched the green-and-black stick figure meant to represent his daughter burn to nothingness, too stunned to do anything but stand there in a spine-tingling curiosity.

Principal Rodman came around the corner, coughing. "Mr. Vanderson!" He looked from Dylan to the burning self-portraits and back again, before saying, "You shouldn't be here. We shouldn't be here. We have to go."

Sweat trickling down his forehead, Dylan wiped his face with the back of his hand and nodded, registering the sounds of fire truck sirens in the distance. Principal Rodman was absolutely right. Dylan shouldn't have been there, but there he was.

A suspect, at the scene.

He followed Principal Rodman out to the evacuation site, the soccer field that stood farthest from the school building. Scanning the field, he looked for his daughter.

Ellie ran up to him, holding his daughter's and brother's hands.

"Dylan!" she spat out breathlessly. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"I—"

"Where's Clay?"

Dylan didn't answer.

"Dylan: where is your dad?" Her eyes pleaded with him before glancing back to the fire, and he knew what she now pictured in her mind: his father, her husband, trapped in yet another fire, only this time, not getting out.

She really loved his father, even after all the shit he'd done to her. After taking a good look around at the chaos that was ensuing, Dylan finally told her, "I—I don't know."

That was when the arson investigator came up to them. "Dylan Vanderson, we've been looking for you. We need to ask you some questions."