“The top level’s gonna be the last one to fall,” she told me. “In other words, debris from the roof and second floor should be on top down here. So I’m assuming that’s what we’re rooting around in right now.” She stabbed the rake at a twisted steel I-beam that once had supported the roof. “Yes sir,” she went on, “that’s why there’s all this insulation and slate everywhere.”

This went on and on, with no one taking breaks that were longer than fifteen minutes. The local fire station kept us supplied in coffee, sodas, and sandwiches, and had set up quartz lights so we could see as we worked in our wet hole. At each end a Prosser pump sucked water through its hose and disgorged it outside granite walls, and after thousands of gallons were gone, our conditions did not seem much better. It was hours before the level dipped perceptibly.

At half past two I could stand it no longer and went outside again. I scanned for the most inconspicuous spot, which was beneath the sweeping boughs of a large fir tree near the smoking stables. My hands and feet were numb, but beneath heavy protective clothing I was sweating as I squatted and kept a nervous watch for anyone who might wander this way. Then I steeled myself to walk past every charred stall. The stench of death pushed itself up into my nostrils and seemed to cling to spaces inside my skull.

Horses were pitifully piled on top of each other, their legs pugilistically drawn, and skin split from the swelling and shrinking of cooking flesh. Mares, stallions, and geldings were burned down to bone with smoke still drifting from carcasses charred like wood. I hoped they had succumbed to carbon monoxide poisoning before flames had touched them.

I counted nineteen bodies, including two yearlings and a foal. The miasma of burned horse hair and death was choking and enveloped me like a heavy cloak as I headed across grass back to the mansion’s shell. On the horizon, the sole survivor was watching me again, standing very still, alone and mournful.

McGovern was still sloshing and shoveling and pitching trash out of her way, and I could tell she was getting tired, and I was perversely pleased by that. It was getting late in the day. The sky had gotten darker, and the wind had a sharper edge.

“The foal is still there,” I said to her.

“Wish he could talk.” She straightened up and massaged the small of her back.

“He’s running loose for a reason,” I said. “It doesn’t make sense to think he got out on his own. I hope someone plans to take care of him?”

“We’re working on it.”

“Couldn’t one of the neighbors help?” I would not stop, because the horse was really getting to me.

She gave me a long look and pointed straight up.