The scalding dishwater burned Audrey’s hands. She shook them out over the sink and glanced through the pillow-sized window. Waist-high thistle weeds, tentacled crabgrass, and invasive ivy swarmed the backyard. This inundation obscured the original, carefully chosen plants of the past.

It won’t be easy to clear, she thought. Not that she’d ever done it.

In the waning light, she peered past her own reflection. Three sets of eyes stared back. Their eyelids flickered open and closed without a pattern. A morse code for the initiated, maybe. The family reminded her of a nativity scene, but without the kings bearing gifts or the shepherds trailing sheep or the bright star above the manger. Had they eaten dinner, even?

Feeding them would be a kindness. Instead of volunteering at the animal shelter or donating to the food bank—not that she’d done either of those things—she could help this needy family.

The road to hell, her mother would’ve said, knee thudding against the underside of the oval oak table. You know how it’s paved.

Her mother’s blonde hair had been so laboriously coiffed it had appeared like a bowling ball on her head. A motorcycle helmet of a hairdo. She would hold an unlit cigarette between her fingers and pat the stiff, feathered strands, as if they might fall regardless of how much hairspray she used. Walking out of the bathroom in the morning, she would swipe away the noxious fumes swirling around her head.

Picking up the rimmed baking pan with its burned chicken thighs and undercooked red potatoes—butter and salt not doing much to correct the faults of her cooking—Audrey held it over the trash can.

We’re hungry, they seemed to say. You’re really going to throw that away?

She imagined setting three places at the formal dining room table, each with its own placemat, napkin, and fork. Their clumsy paws would struggle with the utensils, but they’d try. Wouldn’t they?

Probably not, she reminded herself. They were feral.

After debating whether to use the nice dishes, the ones her mother would pile in the sink, not cleaning them until every plate, bowl and cup in the house had been dirtied with some scrap of food or drink, well-matched to the receptacle or not, she dumped the leftovers into an old cookie tin.

The screen door slammed behind Audrey. She hadn’t stepped into the backyard for over a year. A well-tended lawn, previously bean-shaped, disappeared under blooming dandelions and flowering chickweed. Moss grew on the roof and the sides of the wooden shed in a far corner. The many dangling limbs of the overgrown cedars, cloaked in ivy, hovered nearby. A stooped hydrangea genuflected over the back fence, its flowers reaching for the weed-choked ground. She walked down the three narrow steps to the muddy, leaf-strewn gravel path that her mother had swept every morning as carefully as a royal groundskeeper.

“I come in peace,” she said.

One raccoon, the dad she assumed, hissed viciously. She set the unlikely serving dish on the ground and stepped backward. The raccoon family scrambled over each other in their enthusiasm to approach the meal. By the time she returned to the sink, the tin was turned on its side and the food gone. The family watched her as she finished cleaning the dishes.

Audrey drove to work the next morning with her thoughts occupied by the raccoons. Would they return? Were more babies tucked away somewhere? Where did they sleep during the day? Distracted, she missed the exit for the grocery store.

Most days she floated through her shifts at the cash register—listening to her manager, Kat, complain about her husband, overriding the computer to let customers use their expired coupons, giving stickers to the little kids, and carding anyone who looked over sixteen. Today, though, her thoughts were full of her dinner guests. Should she make them something special? A quick search on her phone revealed that they mostly ate trash. She’d never learned to cook. There had been no use. Whatever she made had to be better than garbage.

“Audrey,” Kat called from two registers over.

A London broil might be good, nothing too expensive, but she could drive to the nice market across town.

“Did you hear anything I said?” Kat wore her brown hair pulled back in an uncomfortable-looking ponytail. Black liner rimmed her eyes, the wings so sharp they might take flight. As on most days, she’d tied her apron tightly around her narrow waist, like a corset on a Victorian woman.

“Sorry, I had something on my mind.”

“What do you have to think about?” Kat said. “No husband, no kids. God, what I wouldn’t give for one uninterrupted shower.”

Kat enjoyed complaining about her home life. Audrey nodded when appropriate and asked questions when the other woman paused for her to do so. The ritual hadn’t bothered Audrey before. Today, she fidgeted with the buttons that announced this week’s sales on her apron.

On the way home, she went two miles out of her way to the food co-op. The one that sold difficult to pronounce produce and expensive alien-looking flowers. A kombucha display greeted her at the entry, as did the usual thick air without the antiseptic scent of a chain grocery store. When the cashier told her the total cost, she asked the man to repeat himself.

That much for a piece of meat and broccoli?

She counted the bills in her wallet. Her weekly food budget would need to be increased. Organic broccoli would be good for the raccoons. Healthy. During the drive, she decided which of her mother’s platters would be best to display tonight’s meal. After cooking, she set aside some of the food for her own dinner. The London broil was worth the extra effort. It tasted as if she’d ordered it at a fancy restaurant. Even the broccoli tasted good, roasted with olive oil and salt.

In the backyard, a malodorous smell greeted her. The practical realities of animals regularly visiting, she hadn’t considered. Well, some odor should be expected, of course. She walked through the thistle weeds. Thorns pricked her skin like insect bites.

Audrey breathed through her mouth and set the Christmas platter, its fat and happy Santa a cubist painting beneath the pieces of meat and broccoli florets, on the ground next to the previous night’s empty tin. No reason to bring it back to the house. She had plenty of food containers. Maybe the baby could use it as a toy? Besides last night’s family of three, two more raccoons darted over the back fence.

The next day at work, she wondered, would more arrive tonight? How much spaghetti should she make?

“I forgot my ID at home,” the young woman said, rummaging through her purse. Her lips formed a perfect, pouty, red heart. She embodied the confidence of a young woman in a tampon commercial. Bottle it, thought Audrey. Save it for something more important than buying cheap beer when you’re underage.

“I can’t sell you alcohol unless I see an ID.”

The girl scowled, her face taking on the mask of someone familiar with petty grievances. “I’ve bought here before.”

Audrey believed her. The night manager sold alcohol to minors if they slipped him twenty dollars.

“I’m sorry,” Audrey lied.

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

Audrey wanted to explain that she had an entire liquor cabinet in her dining room she didn’t touch, because alcohol could, under certain circumstances, be a big deal.

“Do you still want the potato chips?” Audrey picked up the six-pack of beer and set it on the shelf under her register.

“You’re no fun,” the girl said, hitching her purse on her shoulder and stalking away.

“I’m not,” Audrey agreed.

Christ, so serious, her mother would’ve said. Live a little.

Audrey returned the six-pack to its spot on the shelf in the beer and wine aisle, the hole that had gaped like a lost front tooth now corrected. Her mother would’ve hated the garish primary colors gleaming from the cans. Her mother’s bottles had been expensive looking, with foreign languages in elegant colors on the labels, the liquid shining when the sunlight gleamed through the front window. She remembered the way her mother tended them like a beloved doll collection.

That night, before feeding the raccoons, Audrey stood in front of the liquor cabinet. She’d walked in front of it a million times without noticing its presence. Well, she’d seen the cavernous breakfront now. Opening the center glass doors, she lifted the bottles, some never opened, some nearly empty, and piled them in her arms. There were far too many to carry this way, though. She set the bottles on the hardwood floor. Under the sink, she found four large reusable grocery bags and filled them with her mother’s trove. They were heavy, but she was determined to get rid of everything in one go. With one bag held at each of her elbows, and the other two held on her forearms, she clanged through the house. The only way to maneuver through the doorway to the kitchen was to turn sideways. She cheered when she opened the backdoor without having to set the bags on the floor. They knocked her hips and thighs as she walked down the steps, like small punches in revenge for the bottles’ exile.

Where should she put them? The raccoons ranged toward her as she clanked and banged her way towards the back. She counted ten of them, but it was hard to be sure. They darted up and over the back fence, from the cedars to the back shed. She ignored their leavings and the accompanying ripe odor. This was real life. You had to expect some mess. At the back of the yard, she set the bags down so heavily among the encroaching ivy that a bottle, maybe more than one, broke. The aroma of spilled alcohol filled her nose, making her stomach lurch. She turned around and strode toward the house as quickly as possible. She ignored her conscience, telling her she should drain the liquor down the sink and put the bottles in the recycle bin. No, it reminded her too much of her mother and her declarations that she was done. Finally done with it all. Better just to get it out of the house.

When she was young, Audrey had thought her mom was happy when she drank. Audrey could use some happiness too, she’d reasoned. Why not try it? But the brown and clear liquors burned her throat no matter how much cherry soda she drank, and she spent the night sitting on the floor of the bathroom, throwing up her frozen pizza dinner. The next morning, her mother lectured her about the perils of bulimia. As usual, her mother misidentified the source of their troubles.

She put the thought of her mother and the bottles out of her mind. She washed her hands and put her hair in a ponytail. It was time to boil the water for the pasta.

“Why are you buying so much food?” Kat asked the following week.

They were about the same age, but Kat’s husband and three children of unremembered age gave the other woman an air of world-weariness, as if her questions were entitled to be answered.

“I bought a stand-alone freezer. So I can get groceries in bulk when things are on sale.”

The story sounded believable because it was true.

“Smart,” Kat said, seeming to mean it. “Though your food probably never goes bad, ‘cause you don’t go anywhere. You don’t even need a vacation, nothing to get away from.”

Audrey walked into the house that night like a potential buyer inspecting the place. The furniture had been fashionable once, probably, but her mother had been an erratic collector. The inside of the house, an aged Craftsman, resembled a poorly organized antique store. In the front room three revival needlepoint footrests sat in front of a shaker hutch that could’ve come west on a covered wagon, pewter cups sat on its shelves like a founding father might’ve used, and of course, the velvet green settee against the far wall. (It’s chartreuse! Her mother would respond when Audrey forgot the proper word for its sharp greenish-yellowish color. The color of a hard to pronounce liquor, she thought.) Whatever color it was, it was uncomfortable to sit on. The narrow bench with a slightly curved back, too tall for anything other than reminding the sitter to square their shoulders, was too short for a nap. Audrey had tried it once. Her mother had commanded her to get off it. Audrey would flatten the velvet.

Why did she bump into these hulking, unmatched objects when she didn’t have to?

Decision made, she propped the back door open with one of her father’s larger geodes. Acting as a doorstop was more useful than anything else it had done. Next, she assessed the green (chartreuse!) settee, hands on her hips, looking like her mother inspecting a forgotten item in a shop and wondering how low her initial offer could be.

Tucked between one of the end tables and the hutch, it wouldn’t be easy to dislodge. She lifted the small, round table on the left-hand side and set it by the front door. The hutch on the other side was too big to move, but she shouldered it a few inches to create some space. Not that flimsy particle board! Her mother would’ve said.

After this task, she stood where the end table had been and pushed the settee away from the wall. Alternatively, she pushed and pulled at each end to angle it further into the room. She lined it up with the doorway to the kitchen and shoved the piece of furniture, not worrying about the deep grooves carved into the hardwood floors. Didn’t change require some concession, some loss? At the doorway to the kitchen, she carefully tipped the settee at an angle and shoved it through the frame. It slammed down onto the kitchen floor as it cleared the door jamb. Before pushing it out the back door, she rested a minute to catch her breath. She sat on the bench, still as uncomfortable as she remembered, but the velvet soft as ever. Her arms ached. The whole thing was heavier than she expected.

The best way out is through and all that. She pushed it through the kitchen and again at an angle for the back door, letting it crash on the back porch. Tired and ready to be done with the thing, she gave it one last shove, and it thudded down the back steps.

Before she returned to the house, the raccoons scratched at the wooden legs, leaping up on the bench like it was a dais. It would be good for the babies’ mental development, she thought, like an obstacle course. Everything was working out well. Except she couldn’t count the number of raccoons as they pranced about the yard. There couldn’t be more than fifteen. Twenty?

A few days later, she parked her station wagon on the short, steep driveway of her house. She pushed out her left foot to hold the heavy car door so she could grab her purse and bag of groceries from the other seat without having to make a second trip outside.

“What’s going on?” someone asked.

The door banged against her leg as her concentration faltered. Christ almighty, that hurt. Her neighbor, Charlie, never talked to her. Why was he doing it now?

“Carrying my groceries,” she said, scowling as she moved out from between the door and the car without hitting herself again. The paper bag was heavy with the many cuts of sale meat.

“Not that,” he insisted.

As usual, he wore baggy khaki shorts and a knit cap on his head. The only thing that changed was his T-shirt. Today, a Anthony Bourdain flipped her off.

“What’s going on over there?”

Every night since the green (chartreuse!) settee night, she’d dragged more of her mother’s furniture to the backyard. It resembled a poorly organized garage sale. More and more raccoons gathered each night to climb over the assortment of benches, end tables, and other unneeded items. She’d stopped counting the raccoons. A community like theirs didn’t have an occupancy limit. Anyone was free to join.

“I’m cleaning the house.”

“Not the furniture, goddamn it, the raccoons,” he said, finger pointed at her like an angry principal in a teen movie. “Every night I see more of them. Smell them, too.”

He wasn’t wrong. The smell was… worse. The rotting fruit odor, disgusting but livable, had developed into something more extreme, like super-powered cat urine or fresh dog poop left by a Clifford the big, red dog. As a reminder of the animals’ presence, the stench didn’t bother her much, which probably should’ve worried her. It didn’t.

“They just started coming around.” This wasn’t exactly true, but she didn’t owe him an explanation.

“I’ve seen you leave food for them.”

It was no one’s business what she fed those animals. They needed her, and she wouldn’t abandon them.

“I can’t prevent their coming into my yard.” She wondered if it was true.

“Well, I can call animal control. That’s what I can do.”

This she hadn’t considered. “There’s no need. They aren’t bothering anyone.”

“They’re a menace, so you better stop.”

“It’s not a problem.”

“Your father took good care of that place. It’s gone to hell since.”

Charlie stormed away, securing his knit cap, though stretched as it was, it was in no danger of falling off his colossal head.

An hour later, she made a pot roast and mashed potatoes and thought about her dad. She hadn’t thought about him for years. Without the photos her mother kept, she probably would’ve forgotten what he looked like. Flashes would come back to her, his short sleeve button-down shirts in the summer, his hair combed carefully to maintain the illusion it covered his head, the cigarettes he would smoke when driving her to Sunday school. “Don’t tell your mother, remember?”

They had pancakes, eggs and bacon, the usual Sunday breakfast, when he ate at home for the last time.

“Your mother’s not a bad sort,” he’d said, before leaving to meet his friends for his usual Sunday golf game, a golf game that was actually a younger woman one state away. “Take good care of her.”

Audrey had been thirteen years old.

“You’re not bad, either,” he’d said as he waved to her from the driveway.

In the days that followed, her mother had insisted that her father would return. Audrey believed her. She would pull the covers tight over her head, certain that the next evening would be the one where he would walk back through the front door and ask what was for dinner.

A few months later, she no longer believed. Her father had dropped into his other life, now his only life. She’d lost him, like a paper doll dad fallen between the couch cushions. Three bottles of beer on the wall, now two.

“At least he’s not, like, dead,” Madeline Harper had said, sitting on the curb of the parking lot at the convenience store as they waited for a ride.

Audrey didn’t know how to explain that it was worse to have him leave her than to leave this life altogether. It would sound ungrateful, like she wanted him to die. She just wanted him to come home so things could be like they had been. Not great, exactly, but normal. In the end, it didn’t matter what Audrey said, Madeline dropped her as a friend that year, said she was too quiet. Audrey knew what that really meant. She hadn’t been willing to roll up her skirt to make it a mini or drink the cheap beer Madeline’s older brother bought.

Audrey finished cooking the pot roast and served it in her mother’s elegant soup tureen. Raccoons greeted her from the cedars, from the roof of the shed and from the tops of the end tables, footrests and other antiques she’d brought outside. After she returned inside the house, she heard the crash of the fine porcelain against the dresser where she’d set it with ceremony like she imagined a bow tied server would do in an expensive restaurant. Other dishware clattered and broke in their excitement to get to the meal. It sounded like a chorus of thank yous to her. She’d gotten into the habit of placing bowls and plates with crackers, cheese, and other snacks on the back porch and in the yard. If not, they might get hungry between meals. It takes a village.

A week later, Audrey heard a knock at the front door while she dressed for work. She ignored it. Probably Charlie complaining about the animals again.

Picturing the eggs and toast she would make for breakfast, Audrey walked downstairs. A deep thud beckoned her. Well, Charlie must have a lot on his mind today. She took her time answering, carefully putting on her comfortable shoes and checking her purse for her keys. If she was on her way out, he couldn’t talk to her long, could he?

“Coming,” she called. Her voice echoed in the rooms that were now missing most of their furniture. She hoped she sounded cordial, but slightly harried. Yes, she was running late to work. A good story.

Audrey opened the door. Two men in khaki pants and dark green button-down shirts stood on the porch. They each wore a tired expression and a badge with their picture on it pinned to their chest. Oh.

“Whatever you’re selling, you’ll have to leave. I’m late for work.”

“We’re here about the animals,” the first man said. He looked about her age but stroked his brown beard like an older man striving for gravitas.

“I don’t have any pets.” True enough.

“We received a complaint, ma’am,” the second man said. Clean-shaven, with a sharp collar and polished boots, he held a clipboard. “Your neighbor—”

“Which neighbor?” Audrey asked unnecessarily.

“We don’t have to tell you,” the bearded man said. “It’s confidential.”

“Then how do you know it’s a neighbor?”

“Ma’am,” the man with the polished boots said. “The reports are anonymous, so there’s no fear of retribution.”

“That doesn’t sound very fair.”

“We need to see the yard,” the bearded man said. He checked his watch with a deliberate nod of his head.

“This is my property,” she said. “You can’t just barge in.”

Mr. Polished Boots handed her a piece of paper from the clipboard.

Audrey’s hands shook as she read the formal complaint. These animals relied on her. She liked the yard with its mishmash of furniture, the broken pottery, her father’s geodes scattered about. Empty of her mother’s furniture and her father’s knickknacks, she’d scrubbed every inch of the house. Its bare walls and floors were a comfort to her. Things were finally happening.

“Lady,” the bearded man said. “We have a lot of inspections today, so if you could just show us back there.”

“We’d appreciate it, ma’am,” Mr. Polished Boots said. He tugged his collar as if his uniform were an ill-fitting costume. She imagined him yanking the buttons loose. Tearaway pants releasing him from their confines. She smiled at the image of a fastidious stripper, one still learning his art form.

“I think I understand the confusion.” She walked around the two men, down the front steps and into the side yard. “Follow me.”

Weeds grown to waist height had overtaken the stone path between her house and the fence separating her property from Charlie’s. She walked through them like a maiden in a wheat field. Not a march, but a stroll. There was nothing to hide here; she wanted her stride to say. She reached over the gate to release the latch, pushed the mossy planks, and stepped into the backyard.

“I’ve undertaken a new sculpture.” She gestured as if displaying a grand prize to a lottery winner.

The furniture sat sideways and backwards, tumbled all over each other. It could’ve been deposited by a hurricane. Broken plates, cups, and bowls littered the ground. She’d begun using her mother’s wedding china. The set that had never been removed from its careful padded envelopes unless company was coming over, and company rarely came over until the raccoons. The chaos among the weeds and overgrown ivy pleased her. She’d made this. It was hers.

Thankfully, only one or two raccoons scrambled over the impromptu installation. She’d never been so grateful that they were nocturnal. No scraps of food either. They’d eaten absolutely everything. Maybe they needed breakfast, too?

“Art,” Mr. Beard said.

“It’s, uh, very large,” Polished Boots admitted.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? I’m still working on the piece, but I hope to have a proper show soon. You’re getting a special preview.”

“Sounds exciting,” said Polished Boots in an attempt at enthusiasm. He was the kind of boy who’d been taught to say please and thank you, she thought. Beard Man wasn’t looking at her or the yard. He’d grabbed the clipboard from his partner and started scribbling on a form.

“There’ll be a fine if we have to come back.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Audrey said, imitating Kat at her most punctilious.

“Feeding raccoons is illegal,” Beard Man said. He whipped the citation off its pad and held it out to her. She took it as if it were a gift, smiling like she did when her manager reprimanded her for accepting expired coupons.

The night of the inspection, Audrey heard animals on the roof, and she considered perhaps she’d taken it too far, the dinners, the snacks, the sale meat stored in the standalone freezer in the garage. But no, when had she ever done anything foolish? It wasn’t in her nature. Rolling over to her other side, she convinced herself that the raccoon families would reach some natural limit, some Darwinian pause to their expansion. She smiled as she closed her eyes, content to fall asleep without the oppressive silence that had been her companion for so many years.

Kat frowned. “Who do you need to buy a cake mix for?”

Audrey should’ve been ready with a lie, but she didn’t have the energy.

“Why do you care?” Audrey asked.

“Decorations, too?” Kat narrowed her eyes at the brightly colored candy stars, rainbows, and sprinkles.

“I’m not sure it’s any of your business.”

“You don’t have to be rude.”

“It’s not rude,” Audrey insisted. “It’s the truth.”

Later, as she baked, frosted, and decorated the cake, she realized candles would be the perfect touch. Why not have a party?

She checked the usual spots where her mother would’ve stored birthday trimmings, the basement storage bins, the many junk drawers in the house. They might even be in the sideboard currently leaning against the back fence. At a loss, she wandered upstairs and downstairs to find them. The house was so big now, a magical wardrobe of a home. Her bedroom had remained the same, though. It had been the same since she’d come home after two terms at community college. It was less work to live with her mother than talk to her on the phone. Easier to avoid her if Audrey knew where she was at all times.

In the top drawer of her mother’s nightstand, she found a pristine box of short, colorful candles nestled among the messy papers. Rummaging through the small space, Audrey spotted her sophomore year report card. She pulled the paper out and unfolded it. Her teacher’s glowing compliments about her aptitude and her studiousness, her good grades, they all crowded the small comment box. There had even been a special award for penmanship.

Your father will want to see it when he comes back, her mother had said. Then she’d poured herself a drink. We can’t get rid of anything.

Well, they never did, did they? Enjoying the sound of her shoes on the hardwood floors, Audrey trooped downstairs to the basement for matches and a pack of her mother’s cigarettes. She returned to the kitchen, gave an uncharacteristic shake of her hips and stuck all the birthday candles from the box into the three-layer chocolate cake. The decorations were a riot of color: curlicues and flowers, starbursts and swirls. Tempted by her own baking, she sliced a piece of cake for herself. The raccoons wouldn’t mind.

Satisfied, she placed a cigarette between her lips, put the matches in her apron pocket, and carried the cake down the back steps.

Raccoons peered at her, their dinner of ham and scalloped potatoes finished. An odd parade swarmed toward her as she marched forward with the giant cake in her hands. The cigarette dangled from her lips as if it waited there every day instead of being for the very first time. The musky scent could no longer be ignored. Unable to breathe through her mouth, the full force of its pungent, disgusting stench rose to her nostrils. Holy crapoly. The yard stunk. This wasn’t something that could be fixed with some elbow grease and determination. Well, she’d have to worry about that later.

Audrey set the cake on the settee, enjoying the way the chocolate frosting smeared the bright green velvet. It took a couple of tries to light all the candles, and her fingers were singed from the effort by the time it was done. The dessert glowed like a lighthouse on a promontory.

The raccoons were at once interested and wary. She supposed they didn’t know the ritual of blowing out birthday candles. She stepped backward, holding out her hands to steady herself on the ground uneven with jagged porcelain pieces and shards of wood sticking up like an open blade on a Swiss army knife. The cigarette waited between her lips. She watched the raccoons bat at the cake with their paws. In the middle of this exhibition, this creation of hers, she struck a match, lit the cigarette, and inhaled deeply.

Christ almighty, the taste was awful. She hacked uncontrollably. How could this be relaxing? It hurt to breathe, inhale or exhale. Why her mother and Madeline had enjoyed the ritual, she didn’t know. She removed the cigarette from her lips with two fingers and tossed it into the back of the yard. The red cherry arched through the air.

Hissing, butter browning in a pan, rose to her ears. Raccoons, too many to count, dashed around the backyard. They maneuvered over and under the furniture, up the trees and along the porch railing. Their claws clattered on the wooden porch, the leaning roof, the dirty windows. The candles added to the celebratory air, but before she had time to stop the spread of the fire, it moved from the cake, to the settee, from the settee, to the weeds, from the weeds to the scratched and battered furniture. The blaze warmed her skin from where she stood, and even the raccoons stood a respectful distance back. They’re being cautious, she reasoned. Thank goodness they won’t be hurt.

The spectacle continued. The animals’ ceremonial circle widened, and their hissing and spitting intensified. Sparks flew around the yard, like she imagined fireflies would do on a hot summer night. These dropped to the ground, small flames igniting. Raccoons climbed on top of each other in their haste to move away. When the fire reached the bottles of alcohol, it exploded in color, becoming aesthetic even.

Audrey held her arms wide, feet rooted to the ground and raised her eyes to the dark sky. Like a conductor with her orchestra, she gestured to the flames encouraging them to grow, to leave nothing in their path but the ash from embers. She heard a fire truck. The sirens grew louder, their wail coming closer to her house. Well, she thought, antiques made good kindling.

♡

October 21, 2025