It was so unbearably hot. I felt like I was about to melt, about to fade every minute. That night would revisit my nightmares for years and years, the panic about Whittel, the panic at being so close to death. We both knew Lucy was fine. Our mother went to her first, she was saved first.

It was so hard to recognize anything. Everything looked different when on fire. But it didn't take us long to figure it out, We couldn't get down. We were stuck.

"We have to climb out!" Garten's voice was half-frantic.

"How?"

"I don't know!" I ignored the fire and forced my head out the window with the smoke. I could barely see anything, but below I could tell more than just our family was there.

"Help!" I shouted. "We're up here!" Sudden shocked cries echoed from below, but they hardly hit my ears.

"Good Leapers, there's two boys up there!" One shouted.

"Hold on boys, we'll get you out." I recognized that voice.

"Arner!?" Garten and I said together. Never before had either of us been so desperately grateful to hear his voice.

"Are you two safe for right now?" He called up again.

"Yessir!" We both shouted. It wasn't really true, the fire was growing ever closer, but we would have said a million 'yessirs' if it would have made them move any faster. I saw a ladder go up-the fire station must have arrived at some point-and down on the ground I could see Arner, grumpy, terrible, horrible old Mr. Arner holding it steady and calling out instructions.

"This isn't stable as it should be boys. Be careful. Come one at a time. Don't worry, you'll both get out just fine." Garten shoved me towards the window.

"You go first." I didn't argue.

"Which one are you?" Arner called.

"Wilfred, sir."

"Alright Wilfred, it's going to be okay. Your brother and sister are safe, and we'll get you safe too."

.

.

.

The rest of that night is foggy in my mind now.

"Wilfred!" Whittel tackled me the moment I stepped off the ladder. Our parents were nowhere to be seen.

"Are you okay? Where's Lucy?" I asked, hands on his shoulders, checking to make sure that he was okay. Aside from a lot of ash and dust on his clothes and some very dirty glasses, Whittel didn't appear to be hurt.

"I'm fine." Whittel replied, rubbing at his spectacles with the back of his hand. That only smeared everything. He looked down.

"Whittel, where's Lucy?" I repeated. He hesitated.

"She's-"

"What? What's wrong with Lucy?" Garten asked, appearing. Whittel shrank back, shaking his head rapidly. He wasn't going to say anymore. "Whittel," He snapped, "What's wrong?" Poor Whittel. He never did well under pressure. He cast a frightened glance at Garten, then dashed off, running as quickly as he could. Garten cursed him, then spun in a circle. He targeted a group of rabbits in a huddle, and raced in that direction.

For a moment I hesitated.

Then I followed him.

.

.

.

Lucy was in the middle of her worst asthma attack in years. Everything about her spoke of pain. She was wheezing uncontrollably, caught intermittently by coughing fits so violent they left her writhing on the ground. Her face, sweaty and pale, was wide-eyed and panic filled.

There were several doctors crowded around her, and our mother, but nothing seemed to be helping. Whittel was clinging to our mother's skirt like he was a small child again, peering around at his surroundings and looking just as panicked as Lucy.

Time seemed to freeze.

Everything seemed to freeze.

.

.

.

After what felt like hours, the doctors or nurses or maybe even the Leapers themselves got some medicine into her that did something that wound down the attack. By then, Whittel's mental state had deteriorated into a complete mess. Mother, busy with Lucy, had shoved him off to the side. One of the younger nurses came over and tried to calm him, but that failed.

I knew I should go over and help him.

But I still felt frozen.

"Wilfred!" Whittel's scream of absolute terror finally shook me out of my trance. Hysterical and frightened beyond all imagination, he had worked himself into a state of near insanity. I rushed over, and the nurse who had been trying to calm him backed off, obviously startled by his sudden outburst. That wasn't the last of it, either. Even with me right in front of him, he kept screaming my name, shaking and sobbing and panicked.

It was so hard to watch.

"It's okay, Whittel." His sobs turned into high-pitched, half-screams. Someone shoved me aside. I tripped and tumbled on to the ground.

"Be quiet boy." My father said, face contorted with anger. "Shut your mouth now or you'll get a whipping you won't forget." Whittel's eyes widened with fright as the threat clicked.

"Y-y-yes s-s-sir." He stuttered, voice dropped low into a whisper as his breathes quickened and another sob, this one silent, shook him. He bent his head low, and father nodded, his anger abated. I felt sick.

He'd never been there for one of Whittel's attacks until then.

He didn't know how bad it got sometimes.

Sometimes, we thought he was having a heart attack or something of equal magnitude. I might have thrown up. I'm not quite sure, I don't remember that. Father nodded and stalked off to discuss business with someone. Probably a medical bill for Lucy.

"W-w-wilfred," Whittel whispered. "I-I-I c-can't-" His voice was cut off by another sob. I hugged him.

"I know. It's okay." He sobbed again.

"W-why d-do they t-treat us l-like t-that?" Whittel asked. I shrugged. "D-did w-we do s-something?"

"No." I replied, certain of that. "We didn't do anything."

"Th-then why?" I gazed over at the smoking wreck of our home.

"I don't know." I said, slumping. "I just don't know."