����� Our family used to worry that my father would burn to death. A firefighter in Chicago at a time when terrible infernos were still common, my father had seen quite a few companions die while trying to help people trapped in buildings. My father seldom talked about his job at home, and when he did he kept it light, telling tales about the antics of the young men at Truck Nine/Engine Eleven, and so we all got the idea that it wae best to avoid the subject of fires. Once, though, when I was about nine or ten, I saw some very disturbing pictures in the paper. Unable to contain myself, I blurted out "Isn't that an awful way to die?" Trying to reassure me, Dad quietly replied"Those pictures suggest the people trapped in the building all burned to death, but usually the victims don't feel the flames—they die first by asphyxiation." Maybe, I thought, but I wondered if he was just hoping it was true. One thing seemed clear. Whatever exactly "asphyxiated" meant—I was none too sure—it was better to be asphyxiated than to go on living a few minutes in the midst of flames. I have often since thought about the fate of Dad's friend Dino, who wasn't