Ten-year-old Lily stood at the rusty gate of Kincaid Salvage in Iron Ridge, holding a piece of cardboard that read: "FOR SALE - $150 OR BEST OFFER."
The silence after Silas left was heavy, thick with unspoken dread. Jesse stood by the door, his hand still on the latch, listening.
“He’s going straight to Kincaid’s office,” he murmured. “Kincaid will try to run the code.”
We waited. The minutes stretched, slow and agonizing, like pulled taffy. Lily coughed, a dry, rattling sound that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. The kerosene lamp, now flickering low, cast dancing shadows on the walls.
Suddenly, a guttural roar ripped through the quiet night. It wasn’t human. It was Kincaid, a sound of pure, unadulterated rage echoing across the scrap yard.
Jesse flinched. “He found out.”
We heard heavy footsteps, then the angry shouts of Kincaid’s lieutenants. The yard, usually still at this hour, erupted into a cacophony of raised voices.
Then came the crackle.
I rushed to the trailer window, peering through the grimy glass. Across the yard, near my old repair shed, a small orange glow was beginning to bloom. My heart hammered against my ribs.
“No,” I whispered, my voice caught in my throat.
The glow intensified, turning into a hungry, leaping flame. Silas Dax stood near the shed, a can of accelerant in his hand, his face lit by the inferno. He was laughing.
The flames licked up the dry wood of the shed, consuming it greedily. My tools, my work, the only place I had to earn a scrap wage, vanished in a blaze of orange and black smoke.
Black soot rained down, carried by the rising heat. My meager workshop, built over years of salvaged parts and tireless labor, was gone.
The 18 workers, roused by the commotion, stood in their doorways, their faces pale, illuminated by the monstrous light. No one moved. No one spoke. Kincaid had made his point. This was what happened if you defied him.
I could feel their fear, a palpable thing that hung in the frigid air. They watched, silent and unmoving, a terrified audience to Kincaid’s brutal display. Their eyes darted to my trailer, then quickly away, afraid to even acknowledge my existence.
Lily whimpered, stirring beneath her blankets. The smoke, thick and acrid, began to seep into the trailer through the cracks.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” I murmured, pulling a wet blanket over her face. “Just a fire. We’re safe.”
I held her close, pressing my face against her hair, tasting the grit of ash on my tongue. Kincaid wanted to break me. He wanted the bank record, and he was willing to burn everything I owned to get it. But he didn’t know I still had it.
Jesse stood beside me, his fists clenched, his jaw tight. He watched the flames, then his gaze, full of grim resolve, shifted to the hidden floorboard. The fire was meant to punish me, but it had only hardened his resolve to help.
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