“Shit!” The girl jumped up. “Your jacket’s on fire.”

He bolted off the stool and pounded on his right jacket pocket. A cigarette ember had spat fire onto his threads.

“Holy fucking shit!” he yelled, smothering the flames with his bare palm. It left a blackened hole in the tweed and had burnt the first pages of his pocket siddur. Decker stuffed the ruined prayer book in his other pocket. The girl was giggling.

“You okay?” she said, holding her hand over her mouth.

“Yeah.”

“C’mon,” she chirped. “Let’s get outta here before you burn the place down.”

“I’m going home,” he said disgustedly. “Maybe some other time, okay?”

The girl stopped laughing.

“C’mon,” she said, tugging at his jacket sleeve. He jerked away violently, and she stepped backward, frightened. Without a word, he slapped some bills on the countertop, turned around, and left.

As he drove home, the images grew stronger. The smoky stench of his jacket polluted the car, made it stifling. He threw open the windows and allowed a blast of cold air to hit his face, but still he sweated profusely. The images became real—fire, the stink of rotting flesh. Long-buried memories surfaced. Nam. Tracers lighting up the sky. Blood and bursts of rocket fire. Dismembered bodies. Stopthebleedingtreatemforshockgetemtoachopper. He shook his head fiercely. His mind segued to the ravaged young faces at Hotel Hell. And to Lindsey, her flesh darkening, oozing, cooking in the flames. He closed his eyes for a moment, but the nightmare stayed.

A horn honked, reminding him that the car was drifting into oncoming traffic. He jerked the wheel around and nearly sideswiped the vehicle on his right. Flooring the gas pedal, he raced over to the yeshiva, managing to get there unharmed.

It was nearly midnight, the place calm and peaceful. He banged loudly on her door, the knocks echoing in the quiet.

“Who’s there?” he heard her say, startled.

He had scared her.

“Peter,” he whispered. But she didn’t hear him and repeated her question, her voice small and frightened.

“It’s Peter,” he said again.

She unbolted the door.

“You scared—What’s wrong?”

He stepped inside and began to pace.

“I burned it,” he said, wiping off sweat with a jacket sleeve.

“It’s all right,” she soothed him. “Calm down and tell me what happened.”

He grabbed at his hair and pulled it.

“You don’t understand. I burned it with my goddam cigarette.” He took out the siddur and threw it on the floor.

She bent down and picked it up. An angel, he thought. Under her open robe he could see a diaphanous white nightgown. He could make out the outline of her body, but nothing more.

“Sit down, honey,” she said quietly. “Let me get dressed. Then we can talk.”

He grabbed her arm.

“You’ve got to believe me! It was an accident! I didn’t mean it!”