I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until someone gasped. A firefighter appeared in the doorway, guiding Mr. Whitmore down the steps. He was wrapped in a thermal blanket, skin pale, coughing so violently his entire frame shook.

He looked impossibly fragile.

As they helped him toward the stretcher, he turned his head toward me. His eyes were glassy but focused on mine.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice rasping. “Watch the dogs. Please, watch my dogs.”

I nodded — it was all I could do. The old man gave me a weak, out-of-place smile, and then they closed the ambulance doors.

The house was almost completely destroyed. The roof had caved in, leaving exposed beams jutting out like broken bones. Most of the second floor had turned to ash.