I don’t like fire.

  The church last year was bad enough, thank you. I couldn’t very well let those animals burn, and these guys and I went in pretty much automatically. I think they’d have chosen the same whether I was there or not.

  All three of us sprawl in the sad patch of grass behind the pet shop, under a sickly streetlamp, bathing us in wan orange light, breathing into soft plastic masks we’re holding to our faces. The firefighters have just ended their perfunctory scolding about letting them do the rescuing, and no doubt they’d have done a better job, but more animals would’ve died. Yeah, they’re all kinda lost and roaming the Bury countryside, but they survived.

  Well, except for the fish.

  The building is still on fire. They’ve got a single truck back here with more on the way, and two men plying the hose, while the others are talking to the EMTs.

  We’re coughing, but the treatment eases things. My throat’s a little raw, my chest hurts, and my lungs don’t feel right. My eyes sting less once they wash them out with some saline. I’m tired, and I’ve got a headache, but at least I didn’t hurl like Jimmy just did.

  Grant sits there dazed, legs folded up under him. He seems calm and focused. Jimmy’s on his knees, one hand bracing himself on the ground, the other pressing the breathing thingy to his mouth and nose, and his youthful face looks green. He hadn’t been able to scramble very far away before he barfed. I’d rather not see the mess, and I’m glad for the mask, so I don’t have to smell it. We’re all covered in soot, and parts of Grant’s arms are shiny with salve where he got burned.

  Grant catches my eye and gives me a look I can’t quite interpret.

  “First time?” I say.

  “What? The fire?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.”

  I nod.

  He smirks through the clear plastic of his mask. “You?”

  I shake my head. “I have a weird life.”

  Jimmy barks a laugh, falling back on his haunches. Then he goes absolutely still and holds a hand up. If he turns any greener, he’ll be making chlorophyll, but he wins the struggle to hold on to whatever remains in his stomach.

  Right. Maybe it’s too soon to talk or for lame jokes.

  Just breathe.

  This whole thing is weird, really. There’d been no warning. The aethings hadn’t gone dark before the bombing, which means no luck was involved. I guess that makes sense. It’d be pretty hard to make and throw two Molotov cocktails at a store by accident. The attack was planned. But why? Why blow up a pet shop?

  I could probably rule out PETA, if they were a thing here.

  Jimmy pulls his breather away. “How many of those marmosets were in there? Any idea?”

  I shrug. “Ten? I’m not sure. Maybe twice that. They were really freaking out in there.”

  Grant made a noise. I realize he’s trying to whistle, but the mask messes it up.

  “Yeah, the price tag said three thousand each,” I say. “They’re long gone by now.”

  “Just three?” Jimmy shakes his head. “Man, that’s a good deal.”

  “Where I’m from, I don’t think it’s legal to have any kind of monkey as a pet.”

  “Yeah, here it’s just those kind.” Jimmy nods, imparting his wisdom. “Long-eared marmosets aren’t from here either. They’re what’s called an intrusive species. You’ve heard of invasive ones, right?”

  I nod.

  “Intrusive ones are animals and plants that were brought through from other worlds. They don’t often mesh well with our stuff. Some of them can’t even eat anything here. Long-eared marmosets are an exception. They live a long time. They’re smart. They imprint easily on humans. All that plus they’re easy to train. You can even potty train them. That and they eat bugs and stuff.”

  “You seem to know a lot about them,” I say.

  “I always wanted one.” Jimmy’s smile is wistful. “Since I was a kid. I’ve seen videos where those little guys’ll hunt, like, big beetles with long needles. They’re tool-users too.”

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  Grant pulls his mask away. “I saw one that was trained to hunt mice with a spear.” His voice is barely more than a rumble through the plastic. The smoke pushed it deeper into the bass register. If it get’s any lower we’ll need a seismograph to hear him.

  “No way,” Jimmy breathes.

  Grant just nods and reaches back for his phone. “I bet I can find the video.”

  More emergency vehicles have pulled up in front of the store. We know they’re there because of the swirling reflections off the treetops and the smoke and steam from the ongoing blaze. Then, one by one, they move away, lights still going. Sirens start up. Police and fire. While it’s clear the job here’s not done, the EMTs who just checked us out are mounting up again, leaving one of their number behind to monitor their patients. Something’s wrong.

  I stand up, but by the time I make it to my feet, the only people left around are the firefighters from the original truck still hosing down the back door. I have to go up to them and tap the nearest on the shoulder before he can hear me.

  “What’s going on?” I yell.

  The fireman grimaces and says, “We got another one.” He nods at the fire. “An old school over on Eighth.”

  But I’m already running.

  ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

  The quaint and aged building we call the Shelter still smokes when we get there, but there’s no other sign of fire. The facade is very Schoolhouse Rock without the belfry. Red brick and white latticed windows front a sleepy, tree-lined street. Shards of glass fang their frames now, and it’s dark inside. Dead.

  The firemen rush around behind EMTs who are being directed by cops.

  Police are still rolling up and setting up a perimeter. Most of the light comes from my burning motorhome I’d left parked in the side lot. My house is completely engulfed. I can feel the heat of the blaze on the sidewalk a hundred feet away. Once again, I’ve lost everything.

  They’re letting it burn.

  Fine. It’s not like I can deal with that right now either. I’m looking around for anybody I know. The Becks and the others from Akron. Melanie. Wherever they are, I don’t see them outside.

  I feel sick, the weight of the loss bearing down, threatening to drive me to my knees. Time for that later. There are people I care about and they’ve got to be still inside. My stride barely falters as I rush through a gap in the cordon, Pushing, and through the front doors.

  I take in the blood-soaked couch, the Beck family, all of them, even infant Cassie, slumped and still in death, broken furniture, smeared black lines crisscross the walls and floors, gore, and soot everywhere, and a long pale arm — a woman’s arm right there by my foot, the rest of the corpse obscured by a tall figure in a suit spinning around, rising, pushing me into a wall, dragging me across it, shoving me outside, deflecting every effort to get past her with her hands, arms, and body until she wraps me up in a hug there on the shelter’s front lawn.

  I recognize the smell first. Pine and roses and healthy woman. “Cal?”

  “I’ve got you.”

  Over her shoulder I see Jimmy and Grant, breathing hard on the other side of the yellow police tape, looking around in shock. I try to pull away, but Cal won’t let me.

  “You need to stay out here.” The gentleness in her voice doesn’t fit. It’s surreal. It makes me angry. “There’s nothing you can do in there, Ben.”

  “Melanie’s in there! I saw the Becks.”

  “Dr. Linn is gone.” Cal holds me tighter.

  I know what she means but I hear myself say, “You mean she left? She’s safe?”

  “No, Ben. She fought them. Brained one, we think, with the extinguisher she was using on the fire. They hit her office with Molotovs first from the outside, then came in.”

  “That was her? By the door?” That arm…?

  I only have to tuck my head a little to rest my forehead on her shoulder, she’s so tall.

  “We had some follow-up questions for the Becks and must’ve gotten here just after they left.”

  “Monica?”

  “She’s here too.”

  I look up but don’t find her. It’s hard to see, anyway. Everything’s blurry, but I can still make out the pale shape of Melanie’s arm close inside the door, bloodless and alone.

  My knees buckle.

  Cal helps me down.

  Fine. Fine.

  She sits beside me, her arm warm across my shoulders. We’re in the grass. “You’ll stain your suit.” If she hears me, she gives no sign.

  I want to do something, but everything’s being done. My legs won’t work right now, anyway. I’m barely hanging on.

  My breath hitches. I smell blood and smoke.

  Why not break? Who cares? My home’s gone, Melanie’s gone. At least some people I saved earlier are dead. Today! That was this fucking morning. I thought I had done some good. Helped.

  Cal hugs me to her. “We don’t think they took anybody, Ben. They killed Dr. Linn and the Becks, carved the place up, scaring the hell out of everybody else. Most survived. We got them out of here first thing. They lasered your gas tank on the way out, and then they left. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  That does it. I fall apart right there, managing an angry, feeble roar before collapsing in great heaving sobs. Melanie kissed me not four hours ago, and I’d run off. Ran away from her, terrified she’d get hurt. That I’d hurt her. Now she’s dead because I wasn’t here. What am I doing making more friends? Building any kind of relationship with fucking anyone? I should go live in the desert or in a cave somewhere. I can help people from there. What am I doing?

  I have to get out of here, but Cal wrestles me down and wraps me up so that I’m howling into her thigh. It’s no use struggling. She’s brought her full weight to bear, and it’s like a soft skyscraper has fallen on me, trapped me, which makes me realize I’m panicking even as it subsides, subsumed within her embrace, then diluted, then transmogrifies into mere crippling grief. I convulse with great wracking cries.

  She’s talking. Saying something soothing, but I don’t listen.

  Grant and Jimmy reply, I think.

  I need to get away from them all. Cal won’t let me, and I’m so tired. I weigh a thousand pounds, a massive boulder of humiliated, grieving bullshit, literally cursed, sunk so far into the ground I’m impossible to move, unable to house, insane to befriend. I’m what other people wreck themselves on.

  Cal’s arm is the only thing tethering me to this place. If I could get her to let go, I’ll drift away into space and be lost. Which is precisely what I want and deserve.

  I hate myself for being fatally, murderously selfish. I want to tell everybody what a huge asshole I am, and what horrible people they are for watching me here, and I sure fucking hope they’re enjoying the show, but when I look, the only person I can see looking at me is Monica Ochoa, her mirrored glasses in her hand, eyes shining with tears.