“Ellie,” I rasped. “Eleanor Whitman.”
Dad stepped toward me, but a firefighter blocked his path.
“Sir, remain where you are.”
“That is my daughter,” Dad said quickly. “Ellie, thank God!”
I looked at him. His face begged me to support his story. His eyes warned me to remain silent.
So I said nothing.
Not there.
Not while my lungs burned and my body shook.
Not while Mom stood behind him with her arms folded, already wondering what I might tell people. READ FULL STORY 
