Читать книгу The Arsonist's Song Has Nothing to Do With Fire - Allison Titus - Страница 23

Dropping the match was easy.

The flame grew, peeling into the air as the match tip crumbled, and right as the last bit of it fell to flame—the orange creeping so close to his thumb the skin there began to glow—he dropped it. Opened the pinch of forefinger and thumb that held it steady and let go. The match caught the cardboard lip and flung into a hundred sparks, a thousand sparks, streaking through the boxes propped on the Dumpster until the whole thing was burning.

It was easy.

Ronny took off. The sound of his feet pounding the ground, pounding the dead leaves, was nothing compared to the blood knocking in his ears. He catalogued the items he passed as he ran, mostly to keep from turning around and looking. The woods edging the parking lot were full of things. Pabst Blue Ribbon cans, some forties, an empty bottle of Wild Irish Rose, a red baseball cap poking through the moldy leaves, an assortment of paper products—shredded napkins, grease-stained bags, flattened coffee cups. Ronny ran through the cold afternoon, gritting his teeth, breathing through his nose, eyes on the ground. Gray sleeve cut from a long-sleeved shirt. White plastic bag. White Styrofoam cup.

A cramp jerked his side, that familiar running stitch, and caused him to double over finally and brace against a tree. Head spinning, eyes hot, he was less than a mile from the fire still. He looked up—blackbird, shred of sky—had to keep going, get out of there.