The first hit the sofa, the second the coffee table. Both exploded into flames. Paco dropped to the floor, crawling past the fire and into my room.
“Lucy, Sicily,” he yelled. “Where are you?” Water was running.
“Aquí en el cuarto de baño,” Lucy whispered back.
We were lying in the bath tub with the shower on.
“Smart girls!” Paco said. He also soaked himself. Wrapped in wet blankets and sheets, we all leapt through the flames and out the back door.
“Get to Abeula—through the yards, not the street or alleys,” Paco said, throwing the bedclothes on the ground, stamping out smoldering embers.
“Aren’t you coming with us?” I asked, shaking.“I’ll be there soon, after I keep the place from burning.” There was a spigot with a garden hose. Paco turned the handle, water sprayed from the nozzle. Dragging the hose, he raced into the house. The men on the street were gone, but the flames were not. Under the sink was a plastic bottle of Ponds dish detergent. Squirting the soap ahead of him, he mixed it with the fan of water.
“What is he doing?” Lucy asked. She and I still stood outside the back door.
“I think he’s using a science lesson. You know, the one where soap breaks down oil or gasoline. It’ll help put out the fire,” I said. We saw the flames transform to steam. Thinking Paco was safe, we ran.”

Paco was a dreamer.