Fred is an arsonist—and, Fred is not an arsonist. Let me explain: Fred has thought of fire, its power and grace, for a long time. Perhaps since he was a child. He often watched fires, mesmerized by ... [+]
We drove south on York Road, passing the large brick house that always stole my attention. I peered past my mother's arms and the steering wheel, to take another long, unblinking look. The exterior was almost completely hidden by overgrown trees and vines, also hiding acres and acres of unseen farmland. If someone didn't know it was there, they would probably miss it the first twenty times they drove by. "What's that on that house?" I asked. I was a nine-year-old, chubby cheeked girl with sloppy hair in a tight ponytail. Despite many repeated questions, I was still unable to hold back. "What d