His Voice Through the Smoke

When the fire alarm shrieked at 2:47 a.m., six-year-old Lily Chen couldn't see anything. Smoke filled the upstairs hallway of their Cedar Rapids bungalow, black and thick and burning her eyes. She clutched her stuffed rabbit and pressed herself against the bedroom wall, too terrified to move.

Then she heard it — her father's voice cutting through the roar.

"Lily! Come to me! Follow my voice!"

She couldn't see the stairs. She couldn't see the door. But she knew that voice better than any sound on earth. So she dropped to her hands and knees and crawled toward it, one small hand reaching forward into the darkness, then the next.