He got her out, out into the cool evening breeze, her charred clothing fused into her flesh. But he got her out as behind them the age-dried timbers of the old Matthews house fed an ever growing flame.
He got her out as neighbors began to see and to run, offering help and encouragement, someone among them already clanging a steel triangle to alert the volunteer fire department.
He got her out of the burning, roaring, spark-flaring blaze and he stood there in the young night with Clarice cradled in his arms, ignoring all offers of help from the neighbors.
And after a while—it might have been minutes or might as well have been hours—he relinquished his hold on her and let them lift her out of his arms.
He thought she probably died even before he got her out of the house. But he hadn’t wanted to take a chance about it. He hadn’t wanted to let anyone else take her from him while there was the slightest possibility that she might feel, that she might think he was abandoning her. He, after all, was the one who’d promised to save her, dammit. He was the one.
He let someone take her finally and shook his head and wondered how he’d gone and gotten his face all wet. Probably from the water buckets. Or sweat. Or some such thing.
Goddammit.