I was awakened by the noise of the fire engines – heard the grinding of gears downshifting for the turn off Main Street, heard the pitch of the sirens drop as they sped north on the highway.  I tried to fight the sense of panic sirens in the night always bring.  For a brief moment I was eight years old again, and fire engines were converging on my house, while my father lay on the floor of his den in a pool of blood. I shivered under the covers, willing myself back to the present.  I wondered if  Mom was lying awake in her room, feeling the same cold sweat, the same fluttering in her chest.

It sounded like four or five separate engines, or maybe some were police cars - something big, for sure. I dragged myself out of bed and spread the slats on the blinds. I thought maybe, just maybe, I could spot a faint glow in the northern sky.  Something orangey and flickery, not the steady yellow of the street lamps. I decided it was just my stupid imagination and threw my body back in bed, bouncing my head into the headboard. 

Now I was really disgusted.  No way was I going to get back to sleep again. The clock on my nightstand said 4:08.  Four in the morning!  Crazy time for a fire.  It was a thought I was going to remember the next day, when rumors of tragedy spread through the hallways and into the classrooms of Bennington High. 

The rumors themselves were like a firestorm, creating a draft that magnified their effect.  Or so I thought. Being a world-class cynic, I was sure the story had been blown way, way out of proportion by the time I’d heard it.  It was said two people had been trapped inside a burning farmhouse. Within minutes, the number of victims had become three and, tragically, only one had managed to get out of the building. The truth, in the form of a statement from a grim-faced Bennington Police spokesman, was even worse.

Jennifer and I watched the television on the little wheeled cart which had been installed in a corner of the school library.  Principal Hyatt, despite his being totally out of synch with anyone under thirty, and though he hated like hell coming into actual contact with anything so gross as a student – had a few good ideas every once in a while. For instance, he was big on keeping us plugged into world affairs.  Whenever there was what the TV people called “breaking news,” several sets would be placed at strategic points around the campus and turned on so his flock could gather and become “part of an informed citizenry.”

The policeman on the screen stood with a microphone shoved in his face by a young female reporter. Behind them was a smoldering heap of blackened timbers.

Jennifer gripped my hand and a surge of heat, unrelated to the scene in front of us, flushed through me. I squeezed back, then forced my attention back to the screen.

“... and we just don’t know yet.  A neighbor says a family of six lived in the house, farm workers.  We aren’t certain, but think they were all in there – a mother, a father, four ... children.”  The policeman choked up then, and closed his eyes.  The reporter started to say something but thought better of it.  The cameraman, also recognizing the dramatic opportunity, panned in for a close-up of the officer’s face. Tears could be clearly seen coursing down his leathered cheeks.

When he spoke again, his voice cracked. “We believe that ... there is no evidence a single one of them, adult or child, managed to escape.”

“Thank you, Officer Ferguson,” the reporter said, as the camera moved back to reveal a third person, standing to her other side. The reporter, oozing somber sincerity, spoke directly to the camera to tell viewers she also had with her Captain Frank Barnes of the County Fire Department.

She turned quickly and thrust the mike into the fireman’s face. “What can you tell us, Captain Barnes, about the cause of this tragic blaze?”

The captain coughed a couple of times and rubbed his hand on his throat.  He said, “Until we can enter the remains of the building for a detailed examination, it’s too early to come to a definitive conclusion as to the origin of the fire.”

“Isn’t there evidence that this blaze was set deliberately, Captain?”

“There are certain suspicious items that must be checked, yes.”

“I’m told,” the reporter persisted, “that several gasoline cans can be seen around the periphery of the house. Are those the suspicious items you’re referring to?”

“The presence of accelerant containers is always viewed with suspicion at the scene of a fire. But as I said, we can make no definitive conclusion at this time.”

The reporter turned back to the camera, which zoomed in on her face. “So there you have it, live from the scene of a terrible tragedy which has occurred in this bucolic rural setting, just north of the town of Bennington, Texas, a normally quiet town, a town whose citizens awoke this morning to the harsh wail of sirens, and who have yet to understand the full extent of what has happened here.”

With an exaggerated trilling of R’s, she signed off with, “This is Arrrrianna Lopez, Channel Three news.”

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