I saw a man toss a wooden crate into the river and speed away. I ran closer and heard a faint noise from inside. My hands shook as I whispered, “Please… let it be empty.” When I opened it, I froze.

I was thirty-four when the fire took my wife, Tessa, and our little boy. I was working nights at the frozen foods warehouse. Cold dock, a five-degree shift, forklifts screaming in reverse. The sound of sirens cut through the frigid air just past 3:00 a.m. I didn’t know they were headed to my street until my supervisor, Daryl, came running, his phone in hand, his mouth a flat, grim line. They said it started in the kitchen. A faulty wire, maybe. They said it was fast. I still hear those sirens in my sleep, a wail that never quite ends.