Efren had been cold and wet for so long, his skin had forgotten every other sensation. Standing vigil outside the burnt, soggy remains of the garden shed. Just in case something came out.
The old man had been… a lot of things. He’d been a lot of things. A piece of work. An accomplished, bitter shit-talker. In possession of a mean temper and a right hook to match.
Who knew the bastard could have been sad too?
A body-wracking shiver coursed through Efren’s skinny body. He hadn’t dressed for the weather when he’d gone out early that afternoon—it had only been cold then—and when the rain hit, he’d figured he deserved it.
Fingers traced the tender flesh around his left eye. Blinking madly as fat raindrops rolled down his brow and into both eyes. Nothing was coming out. He couldn’t bring himself to go in. Nor to call whatever authority he ought to have called an hour ago.
Most of the streetlights in the neighborhood had gone. Victims of rocks and indifference. But his eyes had adjusted enough that he could still see a charred once-white undershirt. Light from somewhere glinted off broken glass. Maybe the moon?
Who was Efren supposed to call? The police? What would they do? Nothing he’d like, he assumed. The fire was long out. Did one call firefighters after the fire had been drowned?
Then it struck him. He didn’t have to call anyone. He could just… go.
So he did.