“Tara, keep your eyes on your own paper.”

“Yes, Ms. Daniels.” She bites her bottom lip and drops her eyes to the worksheet in front of her.

“Ms. Daniels, can I use the restroom?”

“Me too.”

I look at the identical little faces. Troy and Marcus have light blond hair, pale green eyes, and porcelain skin. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they were angels. But they’re not, which is why they spend two hours a week here with me. If any of the kids in my class are going to move their clip down for talking, it’s these two.

“I don’t know, can you?”

Marcus smiles and tries again. “May we use the restroom?”

Troy shifts around in his seat, crossing his legs. If I don’t give them an answer, I’ll be stuck cleaning up the mess.

“Troy, you go first and then Marcus can go.”

Troy jumps from his seat while Marcus’ eyes grow wide. “I can’t hold it,” he whines.

I sigh. “Fine. Both of you go. Be quick, don’t play, and wash your hands when you’re done.”

You’d think first graders wouldn’t need detailed instructions on using the bathroom, but you’d be surprised.

The twins scurry off. I peek my head out the door and watch each of them walk into the bathroom before I pull the door shut and allow my gaze to travel across the classroom. Although it’s not really a classroom—not like the one I’m used to.

During the day I teach first grade at Heaven Elementary School, and on Wednesday nights I volunteer here. Bright Start Learning Center is in an old home that’s been refurbished into a tutoring facility. The number of kids I tutor varies based on child need, but I have a consistent group of ten, all of whom are present tonight. They range from first grade to third and come from both the public and private school, and three of them, the twins included, are also in my regular first grade class.

Laughter drifts through the thin walls, drawing the attention of Josephine and Tara. I clear my throat, and both girls look at me before shifting their eyes to their papers. The house is small, with six different rooms, each filled with anywhere from five to ten kids. On some nights, with kids being kids, it gets a little loud in here.

Cecelia raises her hand, and I make my way across the room to kneel next to her desk.

“Can you help me with this?” she asks.

I spend the next several minutes showing her how to regroup numbers. When we’re done, I look for the twins, but they’re still not back.

“Class, keep working. I’m going to check on Marcus and Troy.”

I’m three steps from the door when the fire alarms start blaring.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

The kids cover their ears against the shrill sound. A few of them jump from their seats, but I hold up a hand.

“Stay in your seats. I’m sure it’s a false alarm.” Wouldn’t be the first time, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

The junior high kids are the worst. At least once a month one of them gets the wild idea to pull the fire alarm in hopes of going home early. Unfortunately, it usually works. By the time everyone evacuates the building and the local fire department sweeps the house, it’s usually time to leave.

Normally it doesn’t take long for the teacher of the offending kid to figure out what happened and shut the alarm off, but tonight that isn’t the case. I stride across the classroom and yank open the door to find out what’s going on, and that’s when I catch the faint smell of smoke.

Kids are running through the building—a few of them crying, others covering their mouths with their hands—and that’s when I realize this isn’t a false alarm.

One of the other teachers comes barreling down the hall yelling, “Fire! Fire! Everyone out!”

Shit.

I spin around. “Leave your bags. We need to get out of here,” I say as calmly as I can.

But it’s too late, my kids are scrambling toward the door, knocking Tara over in the process.

“Slow down,” I holler, rushing after them. I lift Tara into my arms and race after the kids. The smell of smoke is getting stronger, and a few of the kids are coughing. We make it to the closest exit, which happens to be the back door. Sirens bellow through the air, alerting us that help is on the way.

Setting Tara on her feet, I usher her out the door, along with the other students.

It’s chaotic to say the least, with kids running around screaming and a few of them pulling out their cell phones while the teachers struggle to keep everyone in one area.

“Ethan, get over here!” I yell, moving my group away from the building. I snag his wrist before he can run off, and then I scan the group to make sure all of my kids are present.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

Eight.

Shit.

I count again, this time looking at faces rather than counting heads.

Christopher. Ethan. Josephine. Tara. Eleanor. Cecelia. Ava. Phillip. Drew.

Eight.

Shit. Troy and Marcus!

“I need you guys to stay here, okay?” Their little heads nod while I reach for the arm of one of the high school students. “Stay with this group. There are eight. Don’t let them out of your sight. Got it?”

Before she can answer, I’m running through the yard, scanning the crowd in hopes that the boys ran out when they heard the alarm. My eyes sweep left to right, and when I don’t immediately find them, panic sets in.

My heart pounds violently in my chest as I look at the house. I don’t see flames, but smoke rolls from a few of the windows, and my adrenaline kicks in as I dash toward the door.

I can’t leave the boys in there.

Please be okay.

Please be okay.

I chant those three words as I run through the back door, the same way we came out, and down the hall past my classroom. When I round the corner, I’m hit with a wall of smoke so thick it pulls me to my knees.

Jesus, how did it get this bad so fast?

For a split second I’m rendered helpless, and then, as if he’s here with me, I hear my dad’s voice in my head.

Cover your mouth.

Drop to the floor.

Get out.

Coughing, I lift the bottom of my shirt over my mouth and lower myself to the ground. The sound of the boys screaming powers me forward. I expect to hear my dad’s voice yelling at me to turn around, to save myself, but I’m met with the distant sound of a fire roaring and another ear-piercing shriek.

With my belly on the floor, I crawl to the bathroom, kick the door open with my feet, and then I see them. Troy and Marcus are huddled in the corner beneath one of the sinks. The brothers are holding onto each other for dear life, and when they see me, Troy bursts into tears.

A billow of smoke follows me in, and I quickly kick the door shut, grateful that smoke hasn’t saturated the small room. I take a deep breath as I scurry across the floor and fall to my knees in front of the boys.

Troy reaches for me first, locking his arms around my neck. “Are we gonna die?” he cries.

“No, sweetie, we’re not gonna die, but I do need to get the two of you out of here. I need you both to be really brave for me, okay?”

Marcus nods.

Troy’s grip tightens.

I pry his arms off of me. Tugging my sweater over my head, I hand it to Marcus and then peel my shirt off and hand it to Troy, grateful that I still have on a camisole. It’s usually nice in Texas in early spring, but the evenings can get cool—and so can this old building—which is why I dress in layers.

“Hold these over your mouths. Stay as close to the floor as you can get. We’re going to get out of here.”

Eyes wide, Troy frantically shakes his head. “I can’t. I’m scared.”

“I know you are, but we’re going to be okay. I promise I will get you out of here.”

My father was the best damn firefighter in the county. When I was young, he taught me all the basic knowledge someone would need to survive a fire—although running back into a smoldering building would’ve been a huge no-no. Each one of those warnings and instructions—not to mention my perpetual desire to make him proud—rages through my head as I look at the door handle. It doesn’t look hot, but that doesn’t mean shit, and the door only swings one way: in. I borrow the sweater I gave Marcus, wrap it around my hand and open the door.

A lick of fire darts in front of me, and I reel back, pulling the boys with me as the door slams shut.

“What do we do?” Marcus asks, scooting close to his brother. His wide eyes watch me as he covers his mouth and begins to cough.

Smoke starts to seep under the door, and all I know is we’ve run out of time. I need to get these kids out of here, but it isn’t safe. The fire has clearly spread, and I can’t risk our lives by going out there. Our only hope now is that the fire department does a sweep and gets to us before the flames do.

“Boys, I want you to sit together in that back corner,” I say, pointing toward the opposite side of the room.

I shove my sweater under the faucet, drenching it in water until it’s heavy and saturated. Rolling it up, I stuff it in the small crack between the bottom of the door and the floor. That won’t do much, but it might buy us a few minutes of cleaner air, and right now those few minutes might mean the difference between life and death.