It was not turning out to be the great fishing trip we had imagined. It certainly was not the one Father had promised. All day the rain beat against the roof of our cabin.

Father sat at the window, looking out over the lake. My older brother Jeremy, who had recently turned sixteen years old, lay on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. I paced the room, occasionally glancing toward Father to see if there was any sign that the rain would let up.

“I wish we’d never come out to this boring place,” Jeremy said.

I stopped pacing and looked at Father. He gave no sign that he had heard, and I hoped he hadn’t. This trip meant a lot to him. He used to come out here with own father.

I started pacing again.

“I mean, if we’d stayed home, at least I could watch TV, go out with my friends or play my guitar,” Jeremy continued.

Silence continued for some time. I kept pacing, imagining the trip I had dreamed of before the bad weather had set in. I saw us in the boat, anchor dropped in a calm bay casting our lines toward shore, the way Father had described it when he was trying to convince Jeremy to come along.

Father stood up and turned to face us. He smiled at me. “Come on, get up, Jeremy,” he said. “Let’s go fishing, boys.” He picked up his fishing rod and the tool box, opened the door, and walked out into the rain.

Jeremy and I watched Father walk down the pathway toward the dock (码头)，the wind whipping (打) at his hair,the rain wetting his clothes. Jeremy shook his head. “He's crazy if he thinks I’m going with him,” he said. “Maybe I would have when I was a little kid, but not now,” he said.

I waited for a while, unsure of what to do, looking out the open door at Father, who was walking onto the dock, facing against the storm. Jeremy couldn’t believe I picked up my rod and walked out into the storm after Father. I couldn’t quite hear what Jeremy said because of the wind in my ears, but I heard his footsteps behind me as he began to follow me out to the boat.

At first, Michael Surrell didn’t see the black smoke or flames shooting from the windows of his neighbors’ home. He and his wife had just parked around the corner from their own house in Allentown, Pennsylvania, when they got a call from one of his daughters, “The house next door is on fire!” He went to investigate. That’s when he saw two women and a girl hysterical (歇斯底里的) on their porch.

“The baby’s in there!” one of the women cried. Though the fire department had been called, Surrell, then 64, instinctively ran inside. “The baby” was 8-year-old Tiara Roberts, the woman’s granddaughter and a playmate of Surrell’s three youngest kids, then 8, 10, and 12. The other two on the porch were Tiara’s aunt and cousin.

Entering the burning house was like “running into a bucket of black paint,” Surrell says. The thick smoke caused him to stumble blindly around, burned his eyes, and made it impossible to breathe. The conditions would have been hazardous for anyone, but for Surrell, who has chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (慢性阻塞性肺疾病), they were life-threatening. He was the last person who should have run into a burning building—he has lung disease. But that didn’t stop him.

After a few minutes in the smoke filled house, he retreated outside to catch his breath. “Where is Tiara?” he asked desperately.“The second floor.” her aunt shouted back.

Surrell knew he couldn’t hold his breath for long. So he uttered a little prayer, “Well, Lord, this is it. You gotta help me, because I’m not coming out without that little girl.” Taking a deep breath, he went in a second time.

The darkness was overwhelming. Yet because the house had a similar layout to his, he found the stairs and made it to the second floor. He turned to the right and was met by intense heat. He was already out of breath.

“Baby girl, where are you?” His throat and lungs burned as if he’d inhaled fire instead of the smoke and soot in the air. Every blink stung his eyes. All he could hear was the crackling and popping of burning wood. ①.Still unable to see, Surrell fell to his knees on the hot wood floor. He crawled toward the sound, feeling around for any sign of the girl. An ominous thought crossed his mind: I’m probably gonna die up here.

Finally he touched something. A shoe, then an ankle. He pulled Tiara toward him. ② Her body was limp and she wasn’t breathing. He scooped her into his arms and stood. He felt the heat of the flames on his cheeks. Turning, he fought through the smoke and ran blindly into the blackness. The next thing he knew, he was at the front door, then outside. Surrell put Tiara down on the porch.

③ . A voice told him, “You have to breathe for her.” He started CPR—the first time he’d ever done so. The women stood behind him, praying silently. Soon a soot-filled cough came from Tiara’s throat. Surrell gave five more breaths. She coughed again. Her eyes flickered. He gave one final breath. She opened her eyes and took a breath on her own.

④ .Their eyes met. Surrell hugged her tight and said, “Uncle’s got you.^” Soon after, his throat closed off.

Surrell woke up in the hospital a couple of days later, having suffered severe burns to his windpipe and the upper portion of his lungs. He spent over a week in the hospital. Tiara was released from the hospital after a few days. The fire exacerbated Surrell’s pulmonary condition, and he feels the effects even two years later. As a result, he takes extra medication that helps open his airways. “It’s a small price to pay,” he says. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Wouldn’t give it a second thought.”

My kids sit in Gee’s living room and carefully lift antique Christmas ornaments (装饰品) out of a delicate cardboard box. They gasp when’ they discover a tiny stuffed cat. Gee stands beside them, quietly explaining each treasure. “Ella, the story is that Tom and I built our ornament collection piece by piece during each year’s after-Christmas sale.” she tells me. She smiles as we leave with the box. Her precious treasures, gathered over a lifetime, have found a new home.

We first met Tom and Gee in the early days of our marriage. Someone had been returning our garbage cans to the garage each garbage day, and Jim and I had wondered who. Then one day we spotted him: an elderly man who lived across the street.

I baked cookies and left them on a stool outside the garage with a thank-you note. When we got home from work that day, a typed letter had replaced the gift. The letter was from Tom and explained how he had come to walk the neighborhood on garbage day, returning cans for people he barely knew. A few years after we d moved in, Tom died. We photocopied that letter and attached it to one of our own for Gee. We told her how special Tom had been to us. She wrote back and told us she still talked to Tom every day. When Gee invited us over to look through Christmas ornaments, I realized how hard it must be to part with that box, a piece of Tom.

These days, we’re piling up boxes of our own. We’re planning a move. The house that seemed so huge six years ago is filled to capacity with furniture and, books and toys and of course people. We know it’s time to go, and yet we can’t seem to stick the For Sale sign up on the lawn. Gaining a third bedroom and maybe an office sometimes seems like an awful trade for all we stand to lose.

The moving boxes are still neatly packed in our basement, but Jim and I agree to wait until January. This Christmas, we’ll decorate our tree with Gee’s ornaments, out of the box that is labeled in, Tom’s handwriting. Maybe I’ll talk to him just as Gee still does.