95.

The Little Boy tromps through the ring of ashes he’s made; smiles, satisfied, tries to think what this reminds him of. He only meant to burn his room, but that’s not how fires work, he now understands. His backpack is heavy, but he’ll manage; slough all but
the especially unusual rocks he’s collected, if he eventually must.

“How old are you?” she’ll ask someday, sweat-wet from stage lights, hair in eyes, angel’s voice alcohol-damp.

“Old enough,” he’ll say.

“To vote?”

“…To drive.”

“Hm,” she’ll say.

Tonight he’s innocent, and needs only to find a train.