“Where is Harold Brennan?” the chief asked, and the entire room went still. The young coordinator turned pale and stammered that the name was not on the list. The chief stared at her. “He is not on the list because he built the list,” he said. “Every truck in this building runs because of him.” Chairs scraped as firefighters stood up, one after another, and turned toward the door.

I stood beside Dad’s pickup, my hand on the window, when the chief came out through the open doors carrying a small wooden box. Every firefighter in the room followed him across the gravel. Dad looked up, confused. “Harold, we have searched this whole building for you,” the chief said, his voice shaking. “Do you know what is in this box?”