She Rushed Into the Fire Again and Again… But Love Alone Couldn’t Save Them.
It was just past 3 a.m. when the quiet of East St. Louis was shattered by the wail of sirens and the glow of orange light crawling through the sky.
Inside an apartment that had once been filled with laughter, bedtime songs, and whispered “I love you’s,” five children were asleep — unaware that their final dreams were drifting into smoke.
Their names were Deontae Davis, 9 years old; twins Heaven and Neveah Dunigan, 8; little Jabari Johnson, 4; and baby Loy-el Dunigan, just 2 years old.
Five small hearts that had only begun to understand the world — and who, that night, would leave it together.
Their mother, Sabrina Dunigan, wasn’t home.
She had left briefly to give a friend a ride to work — a favor she’d done many times before.
She didn’t know that while she was driving through the dark, a spark had found its way into the walls of her apartment.
Within minutes, that spark grew into a storm of flames.
Inside, Sabrina’s parents — the children’s grandparents — were asleep.
When they woke to the smell of smoke, the fire was already devouring the living room.
They tried to reach the children, but the heat was unbearable.
The air had turned into poison, and every breath seared their lungs.
They screamed the children’s names — “Deontae! Heaven! Neveah! Jabari! Baby Loy!” — but no voices answered.
Desperate, the grandparents tried to push through, but the flames were faster than their bodies.
When the fire began to lick at the ceiling and walls, they did the only thing they could: they jumped out the window, landing hard on the ground below.
Their hearts stayed behind, trapped with the five souls they could not save.
When Sabrina returned home, she saw the nightmare before she could understand it.
Her building — her children’s home — was engulfed in fire.
Flames clawed at the windows, glass exploded, smoke poured into the night.
She screamed their names, again and again, until her voice broke.
Without thinking, she ran toward the door.
Firefighters shouted for her to stop, but she didn’t hear them.
A mother’s instinct is stronger than any fear.
She entered the burning building not once, not twice, but over and over, trying to reach her children.
Each time, she was pulled back by smoke, by strangers’ hands, by the cruel force of reality.
“It’s my babies!” she cried. “My babies are inside!”
That day — August 6, 2021 — was supposed to be her birthday.
But instead of candles, she watched flames.
Instead of gifts, she lost everything that ever mattered to her.
When the firefighters finally managed to reach the apartment, they found two children in a bedroom, curled together as if trying to protect each other.
Three others lay on the kitchen floor, where the air had been just breathable enough to offer false hope.
They were carried outside, one by one, but it was too late.
Four were pronounced dead at the scene.
The fifth — baby Loy-el — was rushed to the hospital, where he took his last breath.
In one night, five lights went out.
Neighbors watched from the street, weeping.
One woman, still in her robe, whispered, “Those babies were always laughing.”
Another man bowed his head and said, “They just moved here. How can this happen again?”
Because, as fate would have it, this was not the family’s first fire.
Just five months earlier, their previous home in East St. Louis had also burned down.
They had moved into this new apartment to start over, to rebuild their lives.
But somehow, fire found them again.
When the sun rose that morning, firefighters stood silently before the smoldering ruins.
Even the most seasoned among them were shaken.
Assistant Fire Chief George McClellan later said softly, “The guys are taking it pretty hard. It’s kids… they’re just blameless in this. They’re just kids.”
The cause of the fire has never been fully determined.
Investigators searched for clues, sifted through ashes, and listened to the stories of neighbors who had seen the glow before dawn.
Some said they smelled something burning earlier in the night.
Others thought it might have been electrical.
But the truth remains hidden beneath the silence of that apartment.
In the days that followed, the Dunigan family’s grief rippled through the community.
People brought flowers, stuffed animals, and candles to the sidewalk.
A line of teddy bears appeared along the blackened fence — one for each child.
Neighbors hugged each other, strangers cried together, and a city mourned five young souls gone too soon.
Sabrina stood among them, her face a map of heartbreak.
She didn’t speak much; words were too small for what she felt.
She had lost not one child, but all five — in a single breath of time.
“I would have taken their place,” she whispered to a reporter. “Every one of them. I just wanted to hold them again.”
Funeral arrangements were made for the following week.
Five small coffins, side by side — white, with gold trim.
Each held a child who had once filled a home with laughter.
Deontae, the oldest, was known as “the protector.” He loved basketball and often told his mother he would take care of his little brothers and sisters.
Heaven and Neveah — their names mirrors of each other — were inseparable twins. They shared clothes, secrets, even dreams.
Four-year-old Jabari was the family’s little comedian, always dancing, always smiling.
And baby Loy-el, only two, was just learning to say his siblings’ names.
At the service, a choir sang softly, “Jesus Loves the Little Children.”
Sabrina sat in the front row, clutching five folded blankets — the ones they used every night before bed.
The room was filled with people, yet it felt hollow, like the world had lost its heartbeat.
After the funeral, community members gathered for a candlelight vigil.
Hundreds of small flames flickered in the dark, swaying in the evening wind.
Someone read their names aloud.
Each time, the crowd whispered back, “Forever loved.”
A pastor spoke gently: “No fire can burn away the love between a mother and her children. It lives in every breath she takes, in every memory she carries.”
Sabrina stood silently, eyes glistening in the candlelight.
She didn’t need to speak — her grief spoke for her.
Five candles burned in her hands until the wax melted against her skin.
She didn’t let go.
In the weeks that followed, donations poured in from across the region.
People sent money, food, and letters — some from as far as California.
Children wrote notes that said, “We’re praying for your babies.”
A local artist painted a mural on a nearby wall — five angels with bright eyes and open arms, surrounded by clouds.
Above them were the words: “Love Never Dies.”
Still, for Sabrina, the nights were unbearable.
Every sound reminded her of her children — the hum of the refrigerator, the creak of a door, the sound of rain against glass.
She would close her eyes and see their faces.
Sometimes, she said, she still hears them call “Mama” in her dreams.
Months passed, but time didn’t heal — it only taught her how to carry pain differently.
She visited their graves every Sunday, bringing fresh flowers and their favorite toys.
She spoke to them as if they were still there:
“Deontae, I saw your basketball on TV today.”
“Heaven and Neveah, I miss your dancing.”
“Jabari, you’d love the way the birds sing now.”
“Baby Loy, Mama loves you, always.”
Each visit was both a wound and a comfort.
Because though her arms were empty, her heart was still full — full of love that fire could not destroy.