Macey had a shelf in her mind where she stored romantic events that had not happened. She knew perfectly well they had not eaten the marshmallow like a bride and groom. She’d had some, and then Austin had looked down and seen there was some left, so he’d eaten it. But of course, were she to grow up and marry Austin (which, now that he had given her a cap, seemed entirely possible) she would tell their children a long romantic story about that first marshmallow.

Children, she would say, the night before your father saved me from the fire …

How strange she felt around Austin: this lifelong acquaintance she did not know well, this neighbor who had saved her life, this cutie.

You got a crush on that boy? That one named for Texas?

“Nothing special,” she said to her mother. “It’s just a stick. By the way, Mom, when the Demitroffs’ barn burned down, back in 1959, was somebody living in it or not?”

“It’s so upsetting when you keep bringing up fire, Macey,” said her mother. “Did you tell us everything there is to tell about getting your hair burned?”

“Now that I’ve felt fire, I’m interested in fire.” The word fire wasn’t quite right. It was arson that interested her. But she hadn’t told her parents about any arson. “I’m doing it for my history paper.”

“Oh, Mace,” said her mother. “You’re going to have to put so many hours into this project. At least choose a topic that matters.”

“I’ll ask Mrs. Johnson about other topics,” Macey said. She might, too, although she’d be asking about topics for Austin. She was staying with the fire. “But I still want to know. Did anybody live in that barn? In 1959?”

“My science teacher. Mr. Sibley.”

“There was an apartment then?” said Macey.

“Oh, yes, it was such a sweet place. Everybody oohed and ahhed when they saw it. Of course, I never saw it when Mr. Sibley was living there, but most years it was rented to a new teacher, and I’d bring a plate of Mother’s cookies or a casserole and say hi and welcome to the neighborhood, and I’d wander around and inspect the apartment.”

“But you didn’t bring cookies to Mr. Sibley?” said Macey.

There was a slight pause. “I don’t remember,” her mother said.

But you do remember, thought Macey. You remember you were never inside when Mr. Sibley lived there.

Until now, Macey had forgotten the other pause, the faint pause before her grandparents answered questions about that old fire, and once more, the old fire prickled at her.

“Didn’t you tell me, Cordelia,” said Dad, “that that teacher got out in time because somebody on the other side of the creek saw flames and called the fire department?”

“Yes, that’s right.”