all the commotion had been about, the sirens and the glow in the sky. He wanted to see if Michelle’s story was true, wanted to see what was left of the house after the fire.
At the traffic signal at the top of the hill he took a left and doubled back, away from Sunset, the opposite way from the way home, down the hill along the cinderblock wall at the backside of the strip mall. High up on the wall were signs for the donut shop, the nail salon, and then the main store, Gift 2000 , where they sold a little of everything, school supplies and cleaning supplies and boxes of cereal with brands The Kid had never heard of. Everything in the store was supposed to cost 97 cents. The store used to be called 97¢ Gift , but they’d recently changed the name and hung new signs on the outside of the building in anticipation of the new year. The Kid thought that was just as well, because 97¢ Gift was misleading. After tax, everything in the store actually cost $1.04.
It was hot again, bright afternoon sun in his eyes. A rickety van rumbled by, what Michelle Mustache called a roach coach. There were placards on the side of the van with a menu in Spanish, pictures of tacos, burritos, tostadas, hand-drawn logos for soft drinks and juices. The vans stopped at construction sites at break times, and workers lined up to buy breakfast and lunch from the back. Michelle said that she bought food from roach coaches all the time. She said that the tostadas were really good, you just had to be careful that you knew what you were biting into.
There was a large cardboard box on the sidewalk halfway down the hill, the box for some sort of major appliance, a stove or a giant-screen TV. Two dirty, shoeless feet were sticking out. The Kid almost stopped to check if the person was okay, but then he heard snoring from inside the box, so he moved quickly away.
Every few seconds he checked back over his shoulder, half-expecting Brian to be gaining ground at a full sprint, impossible to outrun, to get away from. He scanned the street ahead of him, the corners of houses and apartment buildings, ready to change direction and run like heck if need be. When he saw something that he wanted to write down in his notebook, he stepped off the sidewalk and crouched down between cars in a driveway to hide while he was most vulnerable, while his eyes were on the page.
He walked down the final slope onto the street where he figured the fire had taken place. He wasn’t exactly sure what he had expected, but this wasn’t it. No fire trucks, no police cars, no dead bodies, no smoking craters. The street looked the same as it had ever looked, small houses in ramshackle rows stretching out to the base of the next hill, cars and trucks parked at the curbs, dogs sleeping on porches. Like nothing had ever happened. It didn’t seem likely that he’d gone down the wrong street. He had a very keen sense of direction. He continued along, looking for any evidence of what had happened the night before.
He smelled it before he saw it. Charred wood and stale smoke, like the morning after a barbeque. It was a small house near the end of the street, wedged in tight between two larger houses. One level, maybe a few tiny rooms. There was a cement porch in front and two thin strips of concrete running through the dirt at the side of the house to function as a driveway. The Kid couldn’t remember ever noticing the house before, couldn’t remember what it had looked like before this.
The house was burned to a crisp. The two front windows were nothing more than ragged black holes, the wood frames blown out around the edges. Whole sections of the low roof had collapsed, and long fingers of black sear-stain shot out of the holes and down the front and sides of the house. The walls and roof were soaked from the fire hoses, the wood still wet even in the afternoon heat. It looked like a piece of soggy charcoal in the shape of a house. The Kid held his nose. The closer he got, the more
At the traffic signal at the top of the hill he took a left and doubled back, away from Sunset, the opposite way from the way home, down the hill along the cinderblock wall at the backside of the strip mall. High up on the wall were signs for the donut shop, the nail salon, and then the main store, Gift 2000 , where they sold a little of everything, school supplies and cleaning supplies and boxes of cereal with brands The Kid had never heard of. Everything in the store was supposed to cost 97 cents. The store used to be called 97¢ Gift , but they’d recently changed the name and hung new signs on the outside of the building in anticipation of the new year. The Kid thought that was just as well, because 97¢ Gift was misleading. After tax, everything in the store actually cost $1.04.
It was hot again, bright afternoon sun in his eyes. A rickety van rumbled by, what Michelle Mustache called a roach coach. There were placards on the side of the van with a menu in Spanish, pictures of tacos, burritos, tostadas, hand-drawn logos for soft drinks and juices. The vans stopped at construction sites at break times, and workers lined up to buy breakfast and lunch from the back. Michelle said that she bought food from roach coaches all the time. She said that the tostadas were really good, you just had to be careful that you knew what you were biting into.
There was a large cardboard box on the sidewalk halfway down the hill, the box for some sort of major appliance, a stove or a giant-screen TV. Two dirty, shoeless feet were sticking out. The Kid almost stopped to check if the person was okay, but then he heard snoring from inside the box, so he moved quickly away.
Every few seconds he checked back over his shoulder, half-expecting Brian to be gaining ground at a full sprint, impossible to outrun, to get away from. He scanned the street ahead of him, the corners of houses and apartment buildings, ready to change direction and run like heck if need be. When he saw something that he wanted to write down in his notebook, he stepped off the sidewalk and crouched down between cars in a driveway to hide while he was most vulnerable, while his eyes were on the page.
He walked down the final slope onto the street where he figured the fire had taken place. He wasn’t exactly sure what he had expected, but this wasn’t it. No fire trucks, no police cars, no dead bodies, no smoking craters. The street looked the same as it had ever looked, small houses in ramshackle rows stretching out to the base of the next hill, cars and trucks parked at the curbs, dogs sleeping on porches. Like nothing had ever happened. It didn’t seem likely that he’d gone down the wrong street. He had a very keen sense of direction. He continued along, looking for any evidence of what had happened the night before.
He smelled it before he saw it. Charred wood and stale smoke, like the morning after a barbeque. It was a small house near the end of the street, wedged in tight between two larger houses. One level, maybe a few tiny rooms. There was a cement porch in front and two thin strips of concrete running through the dirt at the side of the house to function as a driveway. The Kid couldn’t remember ever noticing the house before, couldn’t remember what it had looked like before this.
The house was burned to a crisp. The two front windows were nothing more than ragged black holes, the wood frames blown out around the edges. Whole sections of the low roof had collapsed, and long fingers of black sear-stain shot out of the holes and down the front and sides of the house. The walls and roof were soaked from the fire hoses, the wood still wet even in the afternoon heat. It looked like a piece of soggy charcoal in the shape of a house. The Kid held his nose. The closer he got, the more
Similar Books
