The workers and the paid performers who lived at Dreamland were already being evacuated, rushing down Neptune Avenue, which was hardly far enough. The Lilliputians had their own fire department, with small fire trucks and hoses. Once the women and children of their community had been evacuated, the men set to work pumping streams of water on the flames that were ready to engulf the baby incubator house. Nurses in the infant house had taken six premature babies from their incubators, making sure to wrap them in damp blankets to protect them from falling sparks. Under cover of the spray of water, they raced away from the park, with each child

saved.

All through the neighborhood the cries of the animals could be heard as more than eighty beasts, all of which had been located in cages only yards away from Hell Gate, were rushed into the arena. Ferrari and Bonavita and eight other trainers did their best to keep order, which was all but impossible. Mortal enemies were let in together, bears with antelopes, leopards and hyenas alongside the high-strung Shetland ponies, which had to be blindfolded so they would not panic. Only the beloved elephant, Little Hip, who nightly slept beside his trainer, Captain Andre, now at a party in Manhattan, refused to be moved to the arena, despite a chain and whip.

Flames had spread along Surf Avenue, and the enormity of the disaster was just beginning to be understood by residents and bystanders. The heat was nearly unbearable, the black sky turning bright in fits and starts, with garish shadows falling everywhere. Mr. Morris’s hired driver had taken off the moment he spied the inferno. He dared not tarry, for the rush of firemen and policemen would soon enough cordon off the area and the officials might decide to appropriate his horse and carriage to cart away survivors. The driver, who felt the need to save his own skin, apologized to the pit bull as he let Mitts out to fend for himself, certain that the stalwart nature of the breed would help the dog to survive.

The dog moved through the frantic crowds, making his way to the yard of the museum. In a desperate search for his master, Mitts managed to push open the back door. He quickly made a mess of things in the kitchen, leaping atop the table so that pots and pans scattered across the floor. Upon hearing Eddie’s voice echo from the cellar, Mitts raced down the stairs, whimpering and panting, at last settling uneasily when he spied Eddie, now working feverishly on the locks.

The heat being thrown off by the fire could be felt even in the cellar, and the effects were dizzying. Hard to think, hard to breathe. In a dream you must go forward, Eddie told himself, otherwise the dreamworld will disappear with you still inside of it. Paint was melting off the walls and the knob on the workshop door was hot to the touch. Eddie groaned as he fiddled with the brass lock, finally unclasping it. He immediately set to work on the lock fashioned out of iron.

“We have time to get her out,” Mr. Morris said through the billows of smoke that were filling up the corridor.

Eddie continued on, though blisters were rising on his fingers. Mitts was huddled beside his master. When the dog heard footfalls in the kitchen above them, his cutoff nubs of ears pricked forward as he began to growl.

Mr. Morris cocked his head, upset, certain that Sardie had found them out. Eddie paused for a moment, and they steeled themselves for a confrontation, but no one came down the cellar stairs. Instead, the back door opened, then clattered shut as the footsteps withdrew. Eddie felt himself pulled back into real life, for this was no dream. His hands were sweating, but he managed to open the second lock, and at last threw open the door. A rush of dust, and heat, and darkness greeted him and then Coralie was with him, the scent of sulfur in her hair. She’d heard the cries of the wild beasts and the shouts of men. She’d dampened a cloth and tamped out any stray sparks that flew between the boards set across the windows. When clouds of smoke began filtering through the cracks in the stone foundation, she’d believed her life was about to end. She’d knelt on the dirt floor and said good-bye to the beautiful world. She’d held in her mind a vision of all she would miss: Brooklyn, the tortoise in its sandy enclosure, spring, the pear tree in the yard, Maureen’s steady advice, the man who stood beside her now.

The fire alarms continued to ring so loudly that Coralie could hardly hear Eddie’s words as he embraced her. She thought he said The world is ours, and she believed him, though it was tumbling down around them. By now the Dreamland tower had been set ablaze and could be seen for more than fifteen miles. Debris was picked up by the wind; all manner of burning belongings were flung into the air, only to set fire to other entertainments. Fire Chief Kenlon had ordered a double-nine alarm, a desperate plea that called upon all thirty-three fire departments in Kings County. Fireboats and tugboats approached from Gravesend Bay, using seawater to hose down the piers in an attempt to stop the fire from destroying the entire length of Coney Island. Huge crowds had begun to gather, but soon they were stopped a mile away from the sight. Anyone who passed the police stop point was entering into hell’s gate itself—no ride, no trick, no loop-de-loop, but the scarlet portal of hell, with all its fire and agony.