Chapter 11
Mommy shoved off shed doorframe, ran. Gravel bit under her shoes, then wet grass, then cracked concrete parking pad beside house. Screen door banged. She didn't wait for me to answer.
I stayed.
Hose shook in my hands. Brass nozzle still warm from fire glow behind me. Water hissed out in thin, shaky stream, hit smoke, turned to steam. Shed door hung open behind me, black iron latch swinging, orange light pulsing inside where man still sat bound against post. Rope creaked when he shifted. He coughed. I heard him try to say stay, but voice broke.
My name is Macy. I was three that summer, pink dress stuck to my legs, one pink sock soaked, one bare foot cold on concrete. That morning taught me how long yard could feel.
Mommy disappeared through back door. White siding, chipped near spigot, kitchen window above sink. I saw her shape blur past window, hands yanking drawers. Sound carried across yard — metal clatter, drawer slam, another drawer. She shouted something I couldn't make out. Smoke made my eyes water. Rabbit hung heavy in my left arm, beige fur damp, ears dragging against hose.
I squeezed nozzle harder. Water arc wobbled, dropped, hit door threshold where flames licked along floor edge inside. Steam rose. Fire didn't go out. Fire just hissed, pulled back inch, then came again. My arms burned from holding. Hose wanted to twist away. I knelt, pressed brass nozzle with both hands, pinned rabbit between elbow and ribs. Soot speckled rabbit's nose. I pressed rabbit tighter.
Yard was quiet except for fire crackle and water hiss and my breathing. Then distant sound — siren, thin, far off on county road beyond cornfield. Not close. Not coming for us yet. Maybe neighbor called. Maybe Mommy called before. Siren stayed distant, didn't grow louder. I stared at house, waited for back door to open.
Man coughed again inside shed. Rope scraped post. He said my name low, hoarse.
"Macy."
I turned head, didn't let go of hose.
He leaned forward, sweat cut lines through soot on his chest, white shirt torn at shoulder hanging open. Chest tattoo dark with ash. Rope coiled thick around torso, knot somewhere behind post where I couldn't see. He shook head once, small.
"Hold water," he rasped. "Not close."
I nodded. Lips trembled. I didn't speak. Mouth tasted like smoke. I kept water aimed at flames along floor, even though stream was weak. Pool on concrete reflected orange, spread toward my bare foot. I shifted foot back.
House screen door banged again. Mommy burst out, hair stuck to forehead, kitchen shears glinting in right hand — big silver shears, red plastic handle, kind we used for chicken packages and garden twine. She vaulted off concrete pad, sneakers slapping wet grass, cut straight across yard. No shoes change, no pause. Dish towel still tucked at her waist, slipped as she ran.
She hit parking pad beside me, breathing hard, knelt fast.
"Still spraying, baby? Good girl. Hold there."
She didn't take hose from me. She squeezed my shoulder once, then pushed past me toward shed doorway, shears open. Smoke rolled out over her head. Fire light lit her face from below. Hose kept hissing in my hands. Siren still distant on highway, not yet turning onto our road. Yard still ours to hold.
Mommy ducked low at door edge, called back to man.
May you like
"Lean forward. Give me knot."
Man grunted, twisted. Rope creaked. Mommy reached for rope behind post, shears ready. I stayed at threshold, rabbit crushed to chest, brass nozzle shaking but aimed, water still hitting fire, holding line until she could cut.
