The haze thickened into monumental plumes of smoke. Through the gray, he saw churning red lights and shiny patches of wet asphalt. The fire hoses had won. The street was a tangle of emergency vehicles and gawkers, and it was hard to get a view of anything. As he approached the center of Santa Claus Lane, the locus of the excitement seemed to him sickeningly familiar. His spine tingled and his head went numb.

“My house!” He found in himself the energy to sprint.

Two pairs of arms seized him as he ducked below the yellow tape that was stretched across the sidewalk.

“Sir, you need to stay out of there!”

“But that’s my house!” he wailed, through the dark fumes. The smoke put tears in his eyes.

“That was your house.” A consolatory pat on his back.

The clouds lifted, unveiling a crater where the house once stood, now filled in with rubble. When Raymond saw the singed open house sign on the lawn, he gasped.

“That’s not my house!” The sudden shift in emotions violently unsettled his stomach—he vomited on the grass in relief.

“Merry Christmas, Santa,” somebody said, as an army of firefighters wearing headlamps jumped over his puke and descended into the heart of the darkness.

Two hours later, a young Latina officer was assigned to escort Raymond home. As they walked, he tried hard not to stare at the smoldering wreck next door.

“What happened, do you know?” he asked.

“Chemical or gas explosion of some kind.”

“Big hole for a gas explosion.”

“Yeah. Homeland Security’s been notified.”

“And will they send someone to investigate?”

“Honestly? I doubt it.”

“Was anyone home?”

“They found one fatality.”

“Good Lord.”

“A woman. Did you know her well?”

Raymond shook his head.

“Well . . .” The cop trailed off, not knowing what else to say.

She watched Raymond unlock his front door, and showed no intention of leaving until he was safely inside.

“If you have any animals, sir, please keep them indoors until further notice.”

Raymond nodded.

Stepping off the porch, she said, “You may find some of your windows shattered from the blast but I strongly suggest you don’t try to pick up the pieces tonight. You can deal with all that stuff tomorrow, once the sun’s up.”

Locking himself in, Raymond did see shards of window glass on his floor. He didn’t activate the alarm system, well aware of the ridiculousness of arming the house when so many of his windows were broken. Then he went to the bathroom to wash the grime off his face.

His nose was swollen from the gun’s recoil, but not broken. He took a long, hot piss. He was alive; his neighbor was dead.