Breaking the window wasn’t smart. I feel air rushing in and feeding the fire. The music turns queasy and dies as the record melts. Now there’s only the crackle of fire eating varnished wood. Tardily, I look back at the bar.

It’s empty. Is someone behind it? I hear sirens. Smoke gathers under the ceiling, stinging my eyes. I crawl around the left side of the bar, and see nobody. The wood floor is hot on my hands and knees, and my face is baking. Someone grips my shoulder. “Good man; everyone’s out. Let’s go.” It’s Arnie.

Firemen pass us going in as we leave. Outside, my shoes crunch in the glass I broke. The police are asking questions; one comes over to me with a clipboard.

“Name?”

“Emilio Fabrizio.”

“You see anything that could have started the fire?”

“There was a big candle.”

He doesn’t write. “Thanks, you can go. Next.”

“Hang on. Did I just give a statement?”

“Yeah.”

“Then, I should sign it, right?”

He glares. “Get outa here, junker, before I lock you up.”

I’ve really got to get some shades.