The doorknob too hot to turn, he jumped at the crash of collapsing metal, the smash of glass, the escaping bellows of trapped air. The house itself screaming. He could do nothing here. His despair was hotter than the flames. He could do nothing to save Penelope’s family, he would always be who he was, would always have done what he had done. He turned and fled. A rat leaving the building. He was no hero.

Flammable, incandescent, inferno. Words did no justice to this fire or its needs.

Flames devoured oxygen and memories, burned through the ability of language to describe experience and Caleb abandoned his attempt at finding words. From now on, he’d rely on drawing. Was there enough paper in the world? He’d draw and draw and draw until he could paper his room with images from today and even then, he wouldn’t be describing it properly. The fire was nearly everything, and it destroyed everything that it was not. It destroyed Caleb’s relationship with Penelope. It destroyed her parents’ house, their kitchen, every little thing in it, even the inherited cheeseboard Penelope once served him from, all gone, all ghosts, existing only in memories.

Caleb watched Penelope’s house burn, then raced back to Setback Mountain Road, where he’d left his bike. Miraculously, his phone buzzed. At this higher point, there was still phone reception. A message had come through.

C, meet me at CC? Pxx

Penelope. At Creepy Chic. How long had this message been hanging around cyber space, waiting for Caleb’s phone to find it? He had to get back to Brunton. He’d go back to his bike, and head to her in town. At least the fire wasn’t going in that direction. Not yet.

Caleb piloted his flying bike past Brian Nally, a boy a few years older than him. It was months since Brian called Caleb a weirdo Goth faggot. Brian knew God and wanted to introduce Him to the rest of Brunton. Caleb laughed, introducing Brian to his middle finger.

Then he slowed, passing Creepy Chic, praying (despite Brian Nally) that Penelope had stayed at work. And there she was! Unmistakable. In Creepy Chic’s black and lilac painted doorway. Twisting a finger through her yellow hair at the point where it was dusted with threads of fairy-floss pink. Beneath a puffy black skirt, her thin legs were half-covered by long white socks emerging from platform Mary Janes.

She shouldn’t be here. But thank God she was. She wasn’t safe yet. Creepy Chic had nothing she’d need: nothing fireproof, no face mask, no goggles, no gloves. At least she wasn’t at home.