Sloane’s bedside lamp was on, I noted as I scrambled up the gentle incline over the shingles to the window. My heart stopped. Her light was on, but she wasn’t in bed. Sloane. My Sloane was sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees as she rocked back and forth. Tears washed clean trails as they cut through the soot on her beautiful face. Her clothing was dirty. Even her hair had lost its brilliant shine. Her ponytail drooped with the heavy weight of smoke residue. The middle window was open a few inches. It always had been. So I did what I’d always done. I pushed it up and let myself
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