Marybeth squirmed in the cold metal seat. The room was chilled and a uniform bluish-grey, save for where the sideways monolith of the one-way mirror reflected the scene. The table was a worn, beaten holdover from the 1970s, the faux-wood veneer chipped and cracked.

“That gas station isn’t exactly in the best part of the neighborhood,” began the interrogator. “Surely you noticed they didn’t have anything out front, not even washer fluid.” The interrogator sat down in a chair opposite Marybeth and opened up a manila folder, withdrawing several high-gloss sheets of paper, dealing them to the girl.

Marybeth’s heart sank as she began to examine the papers, which proved to be images from the gas station’s security camera, showing her go to St. Isidore’s and ignite it. She soon broke down into wailing sobs. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” she repeatedly cried.

“Maybe,” the interrogator replied, “but actions have consequences.” She left the still-bawling teenager, walking quickly out the room and slamming the door.