Doug was conscious of the weather at all times. Make all the difference in the world. Heavy fog? Light winds? What direction is the wind blowing at different levels? A light mist sprinkled his windshield with dewy condensation. The air was still and the trees were motionless, leaning permanently to the south, away from the wind that was absent tonight.

He could see the orange glow reflecting off low clouds up ahead, puffs of grey smoke polluting the horizon. As he drew closer he saw cars parked on the shoulder, people standing by the mailbox, looking. Talking in a low rumble. Speculating. Doug pulled into the driveway, parked on the grass not far from the house, but not too close. The men by the mailbox had recognized him, were talking about him, he knew it. People turned and whispered wherever he passed by. Doug got out of the car and loped toward the building, stopping to watch the flames. It was an older house, a relatively cool burn. Not like these newer places with the plastic siding and the plastic carpeting that burned white-hot. His eyes followed the hydro wires from the poles along the road, up the driveway to the corner of the house that burned brightest. He nodded to one of the volunteers, a former colleague, their professional relationship over now.

"Electrical fire?"

"Looks like."

"Say, Stan, I remember when the Munros were living in this house, when Carrie used to come over to play with Tracey, they'd always play hide and seek up in the attic. The ladder was in the upstairs linen closet. You boys checked up there yet?"

"No, no, I'll send Dave in there right now."

Doug felt good. He knew something they didn't maybe children's lives would be saved because he had been there. He envisioned Dave, the wiry guy they sent into small places looking for kids, striding out of the house, a toddler in his arms. Striding towards Doug, passing the child over, saying, this guy, he's the one that saved your life. A picture of the three of them in the newspaper. He was hoping again. Damnit. How could he be so mean. Mean and stupid. He hated himself. He was angry.

"Doug, you okay?"

"What?" He hadn't even noticed Stan approach.

"You okay? You looked kind of shaky there. Don't want to see you fainting again. Lemme find you something to sit on." Doug pulled away and headed back to his car.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." He opened the door and got in. Sat there for a moment, watching, waiting. Waiting to see Dave come out. Then worried that he wouldn't, whether Doug's tip was right or wrong didn't matter, if Dave got trapped. If he got stuck in the attic, if one of those old wooden beams -- they were huge logs, huge, like you don't see anymore -- if one of those gave --

Doug backed carefully out of the driveway, slowly, cautiously, and headed back out to the highway, turning left instead of right, going farther away from home. The farther he got from the fire, the faster he went. Passing other cars like they were standing still. Scaring himself when he encountered a skunk at that big curve just outside of Cranton, swerving into oncoming traffic to avoid it, assiduously avoiding locking eyes with the other drivers, the way you do when you're about to hit someone, like you're trying to send each other psychic messages, go left, go right, I'll take the shoulder, please don't hurt me, is this our last moment alive together? Is this our last instant on earth? At the last moment he decided to hell with it, don't go there, take the sideroad back home. His tires threw up gravel, he hit the shoulder, took the corner too fast. But he was fine, fine, he was a good driver, he knew what he was doing, he'd had plenty of practice from all of those years rushing out to save people, to help people, it was what he was good at. He would never hurt anyone. Never. Never wish ill on someone. Never want anyone to be in danger. Never.