The ELI Event B007R5LTNS

was once again ten years old, back with his mother and infant sister, Elizabeth. Lost again, reliving the nightmare…
    “Robbie,” his mother called. “Robbie, come help me with Lizzie, please.” He immediately put down the plastic soldiers he was playing with. Playing would have to wait—Mama needed him, and he was the man of the family now. He didn’t understand why his father was gone, but he recognized that his mother and Lizzie needed someone, someone strong, to be there. He did his best to be that someone.
    He trotted from the back bedroom he and Lizzie shared, pausing to turn on the light in the hallway. Mama was waiting for him in the kitchen, one hand on the skillet in which she was frying chicken, one hand holding Lizzie’s little arm. “Robbie, take the baby into the bedroom to play, huh?” she asked. “She wants me to hold her, but I just can’t right now. I’m afraid she’ll get burned in here.”
    “Okay,” Robin replied. He smiled at Lizzie and lifted her up in his small arms; the baby howled her delight at being picked up. “C’mon, Lizzie,” he cooed. “Let’s go play and let Mama fix supper.” Awkwardly, he carried Lizzie through the hall into their bedroom, where she immediately began to play with Robin’s toy soldiers, tossing them about and banging them into the floor and each other.
    Robin went back down the hallway to the kitchen door and peeked around the corner at his mother, who stood before the gas stove, wiping her face with the tissue she always kept in the pocket of her apron. Robin felt her sorrow then as he had felt it when his father disappeared. She had cried all day, and Robin had cried too—not for himself, but for Mama, whose life he knew would be that much harder now. Even at his young age, Robin understood that much. And then and there, he had resolved to always stay at her side, always be her helper and friend, always be the man his father should have been.
    From the bedroom came a muffled, guttural sound, a sound obviously made by Lizzie, but somehow different from her usual noises. Robin cocked his head and listened for a moment. Hearing it again, he walked quickly back to the bedroom to check on his sister. There was Lizzie where he’d left her playing with his plastic soldiers, but something was wrong. Her tiny fists were flailing about; spittle ran from her mouth. Her eyes were wide, panicked—she was choking!
    “Mama, Mama!” Robin cried immediately. “Mama, come quick! It’s Lizzie!” Rushing to the baby’s side, he was terrified, frantic, helpless. In seconds, his mother was there. The baby’s desperate flailing slowed, her skin began to turn a sickening shade of blue, her little arms and legs fell limply to the floor. Robin could only gape in horror.
    His mother immediately pried the tiny mouth open and saw the trouble. Reaching in with her thumb and forefinger, she dislodged the toy soldier and tossed it aside. Then, placing her mouth over Lizzie’s, she carefully breathed once, twice, three times. The baby stirred; thankfully, she cried. Color began to return to her face as her mother cradled her, sobbing with relief.
    Robin fell to his knees. “Mama, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he cried over the baby’s wailing. “It’s my fault! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”
    “Hush, Robbie, it’s all right. Lizzie’s okay. It’s all right. You didn’t do anything.” Her words were nearly drowned out by the baby’s terrified screams.
    “I was supposed to be watching her! I almost killed her!”
    “Everything’s okay, Robbie, calm down. You didn’t kill her, she’s fine, she’s fine. Hush now, sweetheart.” The three of them huddled for what seemed like a long time and calmed down together, sobbing and hugging each other until the fear had passed. Baby Lizzie was indeed all right, and, sniffling just a bit now, finally found her thumb.
    It was Mama who first noticed the smell, the acrid, stifling smell. She turned her head, sniffing, unsure and unbelieving at first. As the terrible truth dawned on her she jumped up, almost knocking Robin over. With Lizzie still in her arms, she bolted for the kitchen, where she knew the fire would have started.
    She ran to the stove and struck at the flaming skillet to knock it off the gas burner, only to splash burning grease on herself and the baby, who screamed in pain. She grabbed for a dish towel to smother the flames, but it was already too late. The wooden cabinets over the stove had