Tears flooded, and legs trembled.

  He’s been in a school filled with his family, more so than in his home? And the very school that tormented him? Mr. Witman was always so nice to Timothy, because he’s his son. Always encouraging, always smiling, always helping. Yet, never there for him. And Mrs. Witman's disdain. No wonder she’s always on him about mundane things, saying he’s wrong, or accusing him of cheating.

  Liam is six months older than Timothy. Mr. Witman had an affair.

  And Liam, is that why he’s chased him down in a car?

  It isn’t just Liam, but her relationship with Liam. But her too. Realizing she’s been intimate with his half-brother, the bane of his life.

  Oh my God…

  She pulled out her phone and started texting. Mr. Witman is your dad? She would have never guessed that Mr. Witman, without his beard and older, looked so different from the person in the photo.

  No reply. He’s gotten much snappier with his texts lately. Maybe he’s cooking dinner, she recently discovered he does, or perhaps he saw the alert and is trying to muster a response. She waited in the dark, empty classroom—still nothing. Still crying.

  Black sport paint ran down her cheeks, she put the keys back, and closed the drawer. Propping the synthesizer on the window sill, she got out awkwardly, kneeled with her feet on the sill, and hopped down. She propped the synth on the bike seat and started walking back to Timothy’s, one hand on top of the grey box and one on the handlebars.

  She wished she hadn’t spotted that photo. She wanted to kill Mr. and Mrs. Witman and their son. She guessed, on a teacher’s salary, there was no way for Mrs. Witman to divorce her husband.

  She made it where the road straddled between the old and the new. The ranches and her dad’s large business building. Walking the length took much longer than she thought, as she always drove. The next turn went down Main Street. The brick buildings over a hundred years old now were still surrounded by people, mostly entering or exiting the few bars open this late at night. She didn’t care if she ran into Isaac, who was no longer standing by his car, still parked on the street. At the end, she turned the corner that marked the end of old town’s commercial district, and into the neighboring blocks.

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  The large trees hid the view of the stars. They also reflected blue and red lights. A swirl of blue and red. And a haze of orange, a smell of burnt ash.

  A fire?

  She turned the corner. It was mayhem, fire trucks and hoses spouted giant streams of water, and officers blocked off the street. The bright flames illuminated against its surroundings, on the street, on the worried neighbors standing by, against the old sugar mill. The smoke rose and covered the Moon, turning it into a faint speck in the sky.

  Mrs. Kline and Timothy stood in their pajamas across the street. Timothy had an oversized firefighter coat on, and Kayla held him, crying.

  She pulled out her phone, waved the light around, and tried to get Timothy’s attention by yelling his name. An officer was quick to stop her. Pleading, announcing it was her friend's house, they still didn’t let her through.

  She called her mom.

  ***

  “I don’t know whether to be mad at you or the fire,” Dr. Carr said. “Scratch that. The fire is far worse. Far, far worse. I can’t believe I said that.” She looked at the synthesizer that sat in the back. “Was breaking into the school worth getting that synthesizer back? I could have bought him a replacement.” She sighed. “At least they aren’t hurt. My childhood home got flooded, and we had to evacuate. It was scary, but it all worked out in the end. I’ll call Kayla later and tell her I’ll take care of work and ask if they have a place to stay.”

  “This one he earned himself,” Sarah said. “I’m going to kill whoever started that fire.”

  Dr. Carr smiled. Her daughter, defending someone, was different. “I like Timothy. I’m glad you do. But you’ve known him for a long time. Yet you’ve never spoken to one another until a couple of months ago. We’re all wondering how this started.”

  Sarah fidgeted about in the seat. God, she’s good. And she tried to think of a way to get out of it.

  “Mrs. Witman texted me and said Timothy is no hero. Do you know anything about that? You guys became friends, he’s a hero, and now his house is gone.”

  Sarah put her hands on her head. A big part of that story was something she did not want to talk about. Or remember.