Free Phoenix by Elizabeth Richards

eerily quiet when we arrive. Curtains are drawn and lights are out in
     the high-rise tenements and Cinderstone shacks. No children play in the cobbled streets.
     I feel like a trespasser in my own home. We reach the Ivy Church, where Ash and his
     father live. Harold says his good-byes, not questioning Ash when he stays behind with
     me.
    We turn down Cinder Street, and I’m almost knocked off my feet by a wave of heat.
     Men, women and children are running in and out of their homes, all carrying heavy
     pots and pans, water splashing over the sides. Acrid smoke fills the air. At the bottom
     of the street, twenty soot-covered men are throwing buckets of water over the source
     of the fire. It’s our house.
    “MJ!” Day screams, running down the alley.
    My stomach lurches. “Polly!”
    I turn to Ash, but he’s frozen, transfixed by the flames. I grab his hand, snapping
     him out of his nightmare. We sprint down the alley, ignoring the blistering heat.
     This must be torture for Ash, but he doesn’t leave my side. We reach the house. Flames
     spill out of the windows and consume the roof. The whole street could go up if we
     don’t put the fire out soon, but that’s not my concern now.
    “MJ! MJ!” Michael yells, searching for his son in the crowd.
    I grab one of the men carrying buckets of water. “Did you see a teenage girl and a
     young boy leave the house?”
    The man shakes his head. Without pausing to consider the risks, I push past the men
     and barge into the house, ignoring their pleas for me to stay outside. Ash follows
     a heartbeat behind, an arm over his mouth and nose. The kitchen is ablaze. The floral
     wallpaper has been entirely stripped away to reveal the Cinderstone bricks underneath,
     which glow like embers.
    “Polly! MJ!” I yell, and immediately start choking on the scorching fumes.
    They’re not in the kitchen, so I head farther into the house, raising my arm to protect
     my face from the heat. Ash grabs the door handle leading into Michael and Sumrina’s
     bedroom and yells out in pain as the flesh on his palm sizzles.
    “We can’t go in there!” he shouts. “The whole room must be an inferno!”
    We hurry to MJ’s room. It’s billowing with smoke, and I can barely breathe.
    “MJ?” I cough.
    No answer.
    I check Polly’s room next. Nothing.
    Which leaves one room: the bedroom I share with Day. Paint is peeling off the door,
     and the wood is warped from heat.
Oh, God, please let them be alive.
I shove the wooden door with my shoulder, the force making my teeth rattle. It doesn’t
     budge. Ash joins me, and we hit it together. This time the door buckles, and I tumble
     into the room. The air is thick with smoke. Ash and I frantically search for my sister
     and MJ.
    “They’re not here! Did they get out?” I call out to Ash.
    A sickening thought strikes me.
Are they in Michael and Sumrina’s room?
Tears spring to my eyes, and I turn, ready to rush back to their bedroom, when I hear
     a small moan from the wardrobe near my bed. The sound is barely audible over the crackle
     of burning wood. A chair has been pushed in front of the wardrobe, and I knock it
     aside and yank the cupboard door open. MJ topples out. I catch him before he hits
     the floor.
    He’s alive, but barely conscious.
    “MJ . . . MJ, wake up!” I slap his face to rouse him.
    He looks up at me with confused brown eyes.
    “Where’s Polly? Is she here?”
    A shake of his head. “Gone.” He slips into unconsciousness.
    Polly isn’t here.
My relief is quickly countered by worry. Where is she? Ash lifts MJ over his shoulder.
     I snatch my bottle of heart medication off my nightstand, tucking it into my pocket,
     and we rush out of the room. The hallway is ablaze, and the heat claws at my skin,
     scorching my eyes and lungs. I hold my breath as we push through the corridor, barely
     avoiding a pile of burning books as it topples into our path. Flames lick up the walls
     and over the ceiling, making the