Scamp’s mom appeared near the backdoor, smoking a Chesterfield, wiping a charcoal mark from her forehead. He looked over at her, and she gave no indication as to what he should do. Scamp sat down on the grass to wait. His dad had moved the family into an abandoned farmhouse with no heat or hot water. Baby number six was on the way.
Neighbors appeared with trowels and pitch forks to extinguish the flames in the field. The heat felt like the time Scamp got burned when he sat too close to the fireplace last Christmas; his granny put together a concoction to ease the pain. In the distance, Scamp heard wailing sirens that sounded like the calves bleating in the pasture behind their house.
His dad appeared in his repair van and yelled, What in God’s name have you done, woman? then sprinted towards the field. Scamp’s mom sent him to fill jugs with water and to make lots of popcorn. He and his older brother carried both out to those helping with the fire.
The hours festered by.
