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Two of the walls were aflame, as was part of the roof; a
heavy, deadly smoke filled their one-room home.
Seron grabbed his wife around the waist and hauled
her to her feet. Both of them were coughing, their eyes
were tearing, and their skin was beginning to blister. The
fire snapped at the edges of their clothing as he carried his
wife to the door of the hut and threw her onto the soft grass
outside the door.
But he didn't follow her out into the safety of the night.
Instead, he rushed back into the burning hut, diving to the
floor next to the bed. The wooden crate was beginning to
char, but he knew there was still time; the painting inside
had not yet been damaged. He hauled the crate out from
beneath the bed and lifted it. The door was just a few yards
away. . . .
Though the doorway was open, the smoke and flames
were too thick for Kyra to see inside the hut. "Forget the
painting!" she screamed. "Seron! Get out of there! Hurry!"
she begged.
The roof caved in. The hut collapsed. Seron was buried in
an avalanche of fire, and Kyra gave out an anguished cry of
pain that stretched on for minutes. When there was nothing
left inside her, she crumpled to the dew-wet grass.
Kyra didn't move
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