Garbage burned carelessly in a barrel.”
Deputy Clark points to the stone pit. “That’s where it started, isn’t it?”
I bend down and hold my gloved hand above the white ash. It’s still radiating heat. It contains a few pieces of charred wood, the remnants of some paper, and two burned-out beer cans.
“Get me a paint bucket,” I say. “And a shovel.”
CHAPTER 7
The Blame Game
Elizabeth
As we drive back to the elementary school, I’m starting to feel like a yo-yo. Our house to Ben’s parents’ house. Their house to the fire. The fire to the elementary school. The school to work. Work to the fire. The fire to the school.
Each time I settle on a direction, snap! I’m pulled in another.
We’re driving back to Nelson Elementary because that’s where John Phillips was taken after the EMTs treated him for minor smoke inhalation. I actually need to interview him and his neighbors, but the latter have scattered like the four winds. He’s the only one we have a fixed location on.
At the school I check in briefly with a harried Kara, then follow the signs for the gym. It’s already been set up to shelter as many as possible, with rows and rows of empty camp cots and piles of army-surplus blankets and lumpy off-white pillows. I wonder where all the kids are, then remember they’ve been given a “fire day,” much to their delight, I’m sure. What will be done with them if the fire isn’t contained and this place starts to teem with refugees is something that hasn’t been worked out yet.
I ask the lead volunteer where Mr. Phillips is as the gym doors clang shut behind us.
“He’s over there,” a woman I know slightly named Honor Wells says, pointing to a lump of blankets in the far left corner in a condescending voice. “Sleeping, I think.”
He might have been earlier, despite the penetrating fluorescent lights, but he isn’t when we get to him. He’s just lying on his back, staring at the ceiling tiles, his arms folded behind his head, which is resting on his palms.
“Mr. Phillips?”
“Kristy?”
“No, Mr. Phillips. I’m Elizabeth Martin. And this is Deputy Clark. We’re from the police department, and we have a few questions for you.”
“You can call me John.”
He sits up slowly, blinking his brown eyes like we’ve just turned on the lights. His hair is snow white and close-cropped, and his face has the deep tan of someone who works outdoors. He’s snagged three blankets and two pillows. The bed he’s on is in the corner farthest away from the doors.
A man with a plan, it seems. Or good instincts, at least.
John places his bare feet squarely on the shiny wood floor. He’s wearing a pair of blue hospital scrubs and smells like industrial soap, presumably from the school showers.
I begin by asking him some basic questions about his background. He answers me in a rambling way, his mind flitting back and forth between the present and the past like they hold equal weight.
For instance, he tells me that he picked this bed because he was in the army over forty years ago, and he still remembers how hard it was to sleep in a room full of snoring men. And that was when he was in basic training and so tired that he should’ve been able to sleep through a bombardment, let alone the little kind of noises that shook him awake now.
“It’s the days I have trouble staying awake through,” he says, his gaze fixed on a far-off place. “Like earlier. I just put my head on the pillow, thinking I’d rest for a moment, and who knows how long I slept for.”
“You’ve had a shock,” I say. “It’s the way the body copes.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Going through something like you have, you can feel very tired afterward. For days even. It’s a normal reaction, but if you keep feeling poorly, you should see a doctor.”
“That doctor in the ambulance said I was okay after the . . . fire.”
His eyes go vacant, then snap back to attention.
“You’re fine, John.
Deputy Clark points to the stone pit. “That’s where it started, isn’t it?”
I bend down and hold my gloved hand above the white ash. It’s still radiating heat. It contains a few pieces of charred wood, the remnants of some paper, and two burned-out beer cans.
“Get me a paint bucket,” I say. “And a shovel.”
CHAPTER 7
The Blame Game
Elizabeth
As we drive back to the elementary school, I’m starting to feel like a yo-yo. Our house to Ben’s parents’ house. Their house to the fire. The fire to the elementary school. The school to work. Work to the fire. The fire to the school.
Each time I settle on a direction, snap! I’m pulled in another.
We’re driving back to Nelson Elementary because that’s where John Phillips was taken after the EMTs treated him for minor smoke inhalation. I actually need to interview him and his neighbors, but the latter have scattered like the four winds. He’s the only one we have a fixed location on.
At the school I check in briefly with a harried Kara, then follow the signs for the gym. It’s already been set up to shelter as many as possible, with rows and rows of empty camp cots and piles of army-surplus blankets and lumpy off-white pillows. I wonder where all the kids are, then remember they’ve been given a “fire day,” much to their delight, I’m sure. What will be done with them if the fire isn’t contained and this place starts to teem with refugees is something that hasn’t been worked out yet.
I ask the lead volunteer where Mr. Phillips is as the gym doors clang shut behind us.
“He’s over there,” a woman I know slightly named Honor Wells says, pointing to a lump of blankets in the far left corner in a condescending voice. “Sleeping, I think.”
He might have been earlier, despite the penetrating fluorescent lights, but he isn’t when we get to him. He’s just lying on his back, staring at the ceiling tiles, his arms folded behind his head, which is resting on his palms.
“Mr. Phillips?”
“Kristy?”
“No, Mr. Phillips. I’m Elizabeth Martin. And this is Deputy Clark. We’re from the police department, and we have a few questions for you.”
“You can call me John.”
He sits up slowly, blinking his brown eyes like we’ve just turned on the lights. His hair is snow white and close-cropped, and his face has the deep tan of someone who works outdoors. He’s snagged three blankets and two pillows. The bed he’s on is in the corner farthest away from the doors.
A man with a plan, it seems. Or good instincts, at least.
John places his bare feet squarely on the shiny wood floor. He’s wearing a pair of blue hospital scrubs and smells like industrial soap, presumably from the school showers.
I begin by asking him some basic questions about his background. He answers me in a rambling way, his mind flitting back and forth between the present and the past like they hold equal weight.
For instance, he tells me that he picked this bed because he was in the army over forty years ago, and he still remembers how hard it was to sleep in a room full of snoring men. And that was when he was in basic training and so tired that he should’ve been able to sleep through a bombardment, let alone the little kind of noises that shook him awake now.
“It’s the days I have trouble staying awake through,” he says, his gaze fixed on a far-off place. “Like earlier. I just put my head on the pillow, thinking I’d rest for a moment, and who knows how long I slept for.”
“You’ve had a shock,” I say. “It’s the way the body copes.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Going through something like you have, you can feel very tired afterward. For days even. It’s a normal reaction, but if you keep feeling poorly, you should see a doctor.”
“That doctor in the ambulance said I was okay after the . . . fire.”
His eyes go vacant, then snap back to attention.
“You’re fine, John.
Similar Books
