With a cry of alarm, Megan ran forward and was instantly surrounded by a noxious odor. It smelled like gasoline! Why would there be the smell of gas out here? Megan slipped and slid on the sidewalk to get to her mommys bedroom. Fire licked out in bright, shooting red-and-yellow flames through the only bedroom window. Megan screamed again and again for her mother. There was no answer! The popping and snapping of wood burning, the explosion of other windows breaking filled the night around her.
Panicked, Megan dropped Elmo on the sidewalk. She had to get to Mommy! She ran up to the window, gasping and choking. The flames were breathing as though a dragon was inside that room.
Mommy! Mommy! Megan shrilled, as she approached the window. Wake up! Wake up! You have to get out of there! Megan leaped up to the window, her small hands on the window sill for a second. She screamed and dropped back into the snowboth her hands burned. Megan struggled out of the snowbank sobbing and confused and backed off.
Turning, she looked down the one-mile-long dirt road. The truck was gone. The bright stars in the night sky blinked overhead. The temperature was at least ten below, and her breath shot out in ragged clouds from her contorted mouth.
Megan ran over and grasped Elmo to her chest. She stood looking anxiously at the window. It would be impossible to get into the bedroom. But there was another way! Sliding and falling on the icy sidewalk, Megan got to her feet and made it around to the back door. All she wanted was her mommy.
As she struggled through the build-up of snow on the concrete porch, she saw the flames consuming the rest of the house. The fire raced along the roof with a roar.
Looking out toward the road, Megan whimpered. She knew it would take the fire trucks a long time to get out herethree miles from the center of Jackson Hole. They lived on a dirt road that wouldnt be plowed until dawn came. Crushing Elmo to her chest, she stood crying and staring at the back door. The snow was too thick and she couldnt reach the doorknob. And then, the window in the door blew out toward Megan. Shards of hot glass showered around her as the build-up of gases within the home punched out the window like a fist on the other side.
Crying, Megan threw up her hand. Too late! The entire door blew outward. Wood struck the little girl. In seconds, she was flung off the porch and into a nearby snowbank.
That was how the paramedics found Megan when they arrived: stuck in a snowdrift, nearly hypothermic, hands with second-degree burns, her face pockmarked by the shards of glass embedded in her flesh.
MEGAN JERKED AWAKE AND sat up. She was gripping Elmo hard to her heaving chest. The fire! The fire! Looking wildly around, Megan saw that the small lamp nearby was on. Anxiously, she looked toward her partly opened door. She saw no smoke. But she could smell it! Scrambling out of bed, sobbing, she ran to the door. There was a night-light in the hall. There was no smoke visible yet. Hurrying down the hall, her green flannel nightgown flying around her bare feet, she headed for her daddys bedroom.
Matt Sinclaire heard his bedroom door fly open. His eight-year-old daughter, Megan, stood in the doorway, sobbing and clutching Elmo to her. Groaning, he slipped out of bed.
Megan, its okay. Theres no fire, he whispered. He quickly moved to his trembling daughter. Her long blond hair was in wild disarray around her small oval face, her blue eyes wide with shock. Matt crouched down and brought his daughter into his arms to hold her tightly against him. Its okay, okay, Meggie. Theres no fire, he whispered, his fingers moving across her tangled hair and her shoulders. She was trembling. Sounds, strangulated and without meaning, came from her mouth.
Tightly shutting his eyes, Matt held and rocked his daughter. Its okay, Meggie. It was just a dream. Im okay and so are you. Theres no fire, no fire. His voice cracked with emotion that threatened to engulf him. When would this nightmare end? Matt knew his daughter had post-traumatic stress disorder. As he rocked her, he felt her small, stick-thin body tremble less and less. At least once a week, Megan would relive the horrors from two years ago. Matt had never slept well since the fire had taken Beverly, his wife. Now, it was just him and his daughter, Megan.
Elmo isnt afraid, Matt whispered. Is he? Have you seen if hes shaking?
Megan eased out of Matts arms just enough to look down at her doll. Looking up at her daddys shadowed face, she shook her head.
See? Elmo would know if there was a real fire, Matt soothed. He stood up and brought Megan against him. He was six foot two and his daughter was only just over four feet tall. She huddled against his thigh, head resting against his hip. Keeping a protective hand around her hunched shoulders, Matt said, Theres no fire anywhere in this house, Megan. Do you want to go back to your room to go to sleep?
Matt always hoped in these moments that his daughter would rediscover her voice. The paramedics had found Megan unconscious in the snowdrift. Shed become conscious in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, and from that moment on, shed never spoken another word. The psychiatrist in Idaho Falls, Idaho, who had endlessly tested her, told Matt it was hysterical muteness, and that someday, Megan would start talking again. Grimacing, Matt knew his daughter would have to get through the trauma of seeing her mother burned to death in an arson fire.