Late at night, flames were shooting into the sky as a fire broke out at the boarding school where my sister, Layla Collins, was studying.   My husband, Jack Sanders, a firefighter, rushed into the blaze without a second thought.   "Jack, Layla's still inside! She's my sister—please, save her!" I collapsed, kneeling and pleading with him.   "Don't worry," his captain, Grayson, reassured me. "Saving people is our duty, especially when it's your sister."    But ten minutes later, Jack emerged, holding a weak, smoke-choked woman in his arms.   My mind went blank, a sudden thought flashing through my head—an old photo tucked in his wallet.   It was clearly a picture of Jack's first crush.   Eventually, Layla was pulled out of the flames, but her body was burned beyond recognition. She was already lifeless.