After the fireball from the gas tank went up, the Cadillac burned steadily. It gave off a terrible reek of burning oil and grease and body paint, but it was extremely hot. Eli crawled as close to the flames as he could bear. His feet were the coldest part of his body, so he ignored the pain and worked his way around so that his legs were toward the fire. Then he tucked his sheepskin collar behind his head and lay back to watch the spectacle. The interior burned with a bright red flame and an occasional mini-explosion. Thick, dark smoke rose from the closed windows. The flames shot twenty feet into the air, steam rose steadily from around the hood. A smaller fire, started beneath the chassis, gave off gray-brown smoke. As the heat grew more intense, the white paint on the doors blistered, then the exterior paint began to burn. All the tires, including both spare tires, gave off a heavy black smoke as they burned. Twice there was a small explosion in the front end as some part of the engine blew. The heat was so intense he could hardly bear to look at it. At last, something underneath gave way and the Cadillac settled onto its axles, first onto the rear axle and after another puff of smoke and flame from underneath, onto the front axle, so that it was a squat, dark, smoldering thing that bore little resemblance to the fine, expensive, coveted machine it had been only a few minutes before. A charred, skeletal automobile emerged slowly from the flames, like the shell of a burned house. After another fifteen or twenty minutes, the flames began to die down, but the car still gave off intense heat as the undercarriage and the tires burned on.

When Eli and Ezra were very young, their father had told them the story of a fellow named Wilmot Brookings, who had fallen through the ice of a creek in South Dakota. By the time he made it back to Sioux Falls, Wilmot’s frozen feet had to be amputated. It did not keep Brookings from becoming governor of the territory, but the story made such an impression that footless wraiths staggered through Eli’s nightmares for decades, leaving bloody trails in the snow. His broken leg could be set, but if his feet froze through, they would have to be amputated. Wilmot Brookings had done well for himself as a footless man, but Eli did not want to have to find out if he was old Wilmot’s equal. He kept scooting closer to the car as it cooled by degrees, determined to keep his feet from freezing.