I went back out.
The crew had oxygen on both kids now. The mum was still retching. The dad stood there grey and unsteady.
"How long were you in there?" I asked.
"Went to bed about 10," he said, words running together. "Woke maybe twenty minutes ago. Just felt wrong."
"You got lucky," I told him. "An hour more and this would've been a very different conversation."
I went back to track down the source.
Combi boiler in the utility room. A hairline crack in the heat exchanger, almost invisible. Every time it lit, carbon monoxide bled into the ductwork and fed through the whole house.
Textbook.
But here's the thing that got me.
On my way through the hallway, I spotted it.
A carbon monoxide detector.
Plugged into the socket. Little green light glowing away.
I checked the meter again. 67 PPM, right where I stood.
Silent.
I took it off the wall and carried it outside.
The dad clocked it in my hand.
"That's meant to keep us safe," he said. "Why didn't it go off?"
I flipped it over and read the back.
FireAngel. Made in 2024.
"When did you get this?" I asked.
"Six months back. Soon as we moved in. Picked it up from B&Q."
"You test it?"
"Every month. Always beeps. Light's always green."
I turned the meter so they could see it.
"This thing is brand new and working perfectly. Sensor's fine. Battery's fine. The horn works."
"So why didn't it go off?" he asked again.
"Because it's built to stay quiet until you reach 50 parts per million, and even then, it's allowed up to 90 minutes before it has to make a sound."
They just looked at me.
"You were sitting at 67. It did exactly what it's designed to do."
"But we were dying," the mum said.
"I know."