Taking a deep breath, he tries again, this time cupping his other hand around the orange flicker. He slowly moves it until it starts to lick one of the crumpled balls of wrapping paper. Instead of blazing up, it nibbles delicately on the edge of the paper. The flicker of orange creates a thin curved line of black.

He moves the lighter to one of the gold boxes, holding it under a corner until it catches. Out in the hall, he hears Ron yelling. It’s a one-sided conversation, so Parker thinks he must be talking on a phone. He’s accusing the person on the other end of lying. Of spying.

The fire is slowly growing from two sides. Parker gently blows on it, and the flames fatten. The black lines turn to crumbling charcoal and silver ash.

Ron’s voice gets louder. Parker hears the words “remote-control car.”

So they think the Jeep came from the cops. Is that better—or worse—than the truth? Maybe it’s better for Miranda and her friends, but it sounds like it’s firing up the killers. If they get angry enough, will they start shooting again?

The fire’s now about three inches high. Not exactly a conflagration, but it’s making a good deal of eye-watering smoke. The gray cloud hangs a few feet above the table, spreading out tendrils that soften the outlines of the room. The smoke scratches his throat. Maybe whatever makes the boxes sparkly gold is toxic. When he coughs, he almost puts out the fire.

Most of the pile is now on fire. But the room doesn’t feel any hotter. It’s all going so slowly. Parker’s supposed to be providing a distraction, but he’s not accomplishing much of anything. At this rate the sprinklers will never go off.

He looks up at the one above the table again. Why is he messing around with lighting a fire, when he can go straight to the source?

Tucking the lighter in his pocket, Parker starts to brace his hands on the table to clamber on top. Then he realizes all the paper will be soaked once he triggers the sprinkler. What if he needs it to set another fire in a different store? He piles more boxes and paper candy cups next to the fire extinguisher. Then he climbs on the table, careful not to catch himself on fire. His bruised body protests each movement. He thumbs the wheel, hears it catch, sees the steady orange flame appear. To reach the sprinkler head, he has to stretch his arm above the fire. The air over it is hotter than he thought it would be. The skin on his forearm starts to feel crispy. With his arm stretched full length, he moves the flame back and forth under the sprinkler head. As he does, he braces himself for the water, thinking it will be like taking a cold shower in his clothes.