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peared at her door, her round face lightening as she saw them. "Thank God you're both all right!" she exclaimed, hurrying out. "The fire department's on its way. How bad is it?"
"As far as I could see, the fire's just in Abby's bedroom." He wore only jeans and shoes, and streaks of dirt striated his chest and face. His gray eyes were sunken behind a raccoonlike mask of grime. But Abby had never thought him more handsome.
They walked toward the front of the house, where Abby saw smoke curling from its upper story. In minutes a loud, mechanical wail sounded in the distance, its tone fluttering high, then low like the Bronco's noise in Barstow. Then there were two. "Sirens," Hannah said as Abby turned to her questioningly. "The firemen are coming."
Two large red trucks appeared. Men dressed in shining yellow clothing leapt from them, tossing hoods over their heads and masks over their faces. The firemen scattered in all directions. Some dragged long hoses; others carried equipment whose uses Abby could not begin to imagine. Shouting orders, they acted crisply and confidently, as though they had done this many times before.
A young man with freckles and a prominent nose approached the spot where Abby, Mike, and Hannah stood. "Anyone still inside?" He wore a badge that identified him as Montgomery.
"No," Mike said.
Montgomery regarded Mike, then Abby, who,

 
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