Scourged by Fire, and Aiding a Sister Burned Even Worse The little girl wanted to demonstrate her fine penmanship, to show how splendidly she could write. Proudly, she clenched the pencil between her two fingerless fists. She carefully wrote her name: Gabriella. It was perfect. She looked pleased. Wanting to share some of her homework, she flipped open a page from her red spiral notebook, to her reflections about frogs and tarantulas. She giggled. She has vim. Her name is Gabby Rogers and she is 10. From within the shifting hubbub of her East New York, Brooklyn, apartment, she is a girl trying to outdistance a past no child deserves. Camilia Rogers, 28, looked on fondly. She is a big sister and a mother combined, with an electric personality. Calamity hits families, some much harder than others, and at times it seems to stalk them. "Fire runs in our family," Ms. Rogers said. In my life, fire keeps happening. One day in 1992, when Camilia was 7 and her parents were out, she was playing with matches and dropped one onto the rug. A ball of flame raced through the apartment. Her 12-year-old brother and 1-year-old sister did not survive. Camilia underwent many surgeries for burns. A tracheotomy tube remains in her throat. Calamity would not back off. In 2007, Camilia had a new brother and sisters, including Gabriella, then 4. One December day, Gabby was fooling around with a lighter in her mother's bedroom, in a different house. No parents were present. Gabby was home with her sister, Calila, 2, her brother, Lamell, 14, and his friend. The house went up in flames. They had all gotten out safely, but Gabriella ran back in to find her dog, who had already escaped. Then she went looking for Camilia, and became trapped. A firefighter found her beneath a bed, moaning. Third-degree burns covered her body, everywhere but her back. Camilia had not been there. She was at a hardware store with her uncle buying, of all things, fire extinguishers. "Maybe I had a sense from God that something was going to happen," she said. But of course I was too late. She returned to find a melting house, and stood grasping a bag with four extinguishers. Gabby lost her fingers, ears, lips and nostrils. She spent three years hospitalized, retreating into a lingering sadness, amid flattened expectations. Skin grafts continue. She has had many operations, and needs more. She goes every three to six months to Boston Children's Hospital. Right now, doctors are focused on her left hand. Gabby held it up. "This one," she said. "She will never be normal," Camilia said. But to function better. And look better. After the second fire, the children were taken from their parents, both of whom were drug addicts, and went to live with their grandmother. There was not space for Camilia, so she lived with friends. A few years ago, after she got her own place, her three siblings moved in. In September, Camilia formally adopted all of them. The whereabouts of Gabby's father are unknown. Her mother lives in Brooklyn and visits frequently. After the fire, Camilia was angry with her for her recklessness, but when Gabby survived, she made her peace. "I've forgiven but can't forget," she said. To help her with her schoolwork, Gabby needed an iPad. Camilia applied for help from the Federation of Protestant Welfare Agencies, one of the agencies supported by The New York Times Neediest Cases Fund, and it furnished $597 to pay for the device, and also for a train ticket. Camilia and Gabby used to fly to Boston, with seats provided by a charity, but Gabby had become agitated when flying and they wanted to try the train. Gabby held up the pink iPad. "I still got my iPad," she said. I never lost it. She is in the fourth grade. For a long time, Gabby was mournful. She would brood. People stared at her, and she would hang her head. "I'd stick my tongue out," Gabby said. Therapy, and Camilia's support, have brought her to a new place. Camilia kept telling her: "Don't let anyone say you're ugly. You smile at them. You are an angel in disguise. You're different. You're not meant to be everyone else. Camilia will fix her hair just so, dress her up in a fetching way, then ask, "Are you a diva?" And Gabby will say, "Yes, I'm a diva." Now when people wonder about her, she tells them how she was in a fire and was burned. She warns them not to play with matches. "I still scare them," Gabby said. "I know, I know, sometimes," Camilia said to her. Camilia turned away, and said: "She knows her heart is pretty. She knows she is good. Gabby has figured out how to dress herself, but cannot tie her shoelaces. She did it once, jubilantly telling her mother, "I tied my shoe with no fingers." Camilia snapped a picture. But she has not been able to repeat the performance and now declares, "Oh, forget it." She wishes she could comb her hair. Someday she hopes she can find a way to jump rope. Medicaid covers Gabby's medical bills and the family receives adoption subsidies, but it is never easy for Camilia. She sells Mary Kay cosmetics and is finishing up a silk screening class. She wants to make clothing. She hopes to start an organization to benefit children burned in fires. Gabby, she feels, can inspire them. She has begun raising money for it and for Gabby's future needs. When someone makes a donation, Gabby makes them what she calls a cheer bracelet. Camilia wants nothing more to do with fire. "I go crazy if I see matches," she said. They go right in the garbage. "Yes," Gabby said. No matches. Never matches.