I’ve thought about writing a book about setting fires. I’m an arson investigator, so it’d be natural. Change the names, dates, places. Keep the loving descriptions and thoughts. I could’ve probably made lots of money too. People love reading about things they know nothing about, right?

I wrote a little, never published it. I figured it was for someday far in the future, as a crotchety old man laughing at death for every day it failed to come for him. Laughing at society for every day it failed to put him in the big house.

Then the conventions started in ’87, and I was expected to go because I was respected and it was all-expenses-paid. It was too damn tempting not to set fires wherever I went.

I found a tracking device on my car in May of ’91. It was time.

I went back to the place it all started, brought an extra cotton sweater and a pair of silk pants. Doused them in gasoline and put them on. It made me feel a bit dizzy but that was okay. This tree needed some gasoline too.

I flicked the lighter on.